


couldn't seem to die

by cattlaydee



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, John Lives, M/M, there are a few Oc's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7507513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattlaydee/pseuds/cattlaydee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John survives South Carolina. He just doesn't tell anyone else that, and instead, leaves for Europe for almost decade before returning when the French Revolution breaks out. His goal is to stay hidden, he doesn't want to be found.</p><p>But we don't always get what we want. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ratings/tags will be added as this occurs, mostly because it's not totally written yet (I have a few chapters/notes/outline though!) and we all know how that rolls.

**Paris, June, 1792**  
  
_This revolution,_ he muses, _is not like the other one_.  
  
The heat is stifling, and does nothing for the blood running in the streets. Babies cry from their mother's arms, half out of fear and frustration, the other from hunger, for the drought has led to famine, the famine to malcontent and malcontent to well, this.  
  
He wears not the finest of things, but it is nicer than the rags of the proletariat that rush into the streets, and so he hangs back in the shadows as he watches Paris destroy itself. He has already been robbed of his wallet and pocket-watch but has managed to maintain the shoes on his feet due to their wear. His jacket and linen shirt underneath are filthy, and the pants are marred with grime and sweat. He had come here months ago, an endeavor half borne of business need, an analysis for potential expansion or commerce, acting as an associate for one of the mills in England.  
  
That changes, when what had begun as rumored tensions of the people of Paris erupts into violent upheaval, and he'd written the owner of the factory where he has worked for almost 5 years, resigning his post and relaying the terror in the streets. The other war was bloody and had started haphazardly, but it was not anarchy, and that is exactly what seems to be the sentiment among the mob.  
  
He watches in horror as he sees a man in military garb dragged from a horse, and assaulted on the ground, beaten to death as they smash his brains in. As he looks away from the gruesome scene and tries to shake away the muffled screams, he sees another, most likely the man's commanding officer, turn his horse sharply to head back toward the skirmish.  
  
This man, he is surprised to find, is familiar. The realization is followed by a sharp wave of nausea.  
  
_No._  
  
He holds an arm out, without thought, emerging from his hiding place in the alley. His mouth is open to yell out a warning, but the officer is too far from him, the crowds too incensed, and wisely, the officer turns and retreats away from the mob, understanding that reason will not work right now. He stops in the middle of the street, others passing by him quickly and nearly pushing him to the ground in their haste as he watches the man retreat at a clip, urging his horse away as the angry throng scream expletives in his wake.  
  
He cannot stay here, in Paris, the spectator realizes. Truly, he has taken refuge here the past few months, and has even considered returning to England, to request his position at the mill back, but even there, whispers of a war with France are passed among the common-folk, even if the country has begun to tear itself to pieces.  Despite a lingering craving for battle, in the end he finds himself wanting to avoid another conflict as long as possible. Not for cowardice, his mind insists, and that was the truth- on the contrary, years of experience and formal education would give him an edge he wouldn't efficiently be able to hide and he would no doubt rise quickly. Crossing paths with old colleagues may prove inevitable, and that was not a risk he was readily willing to take.  
  
The years of working at the factory, at unofficial study under the man who owned the mills, has provided him with the knowledge of burgeoning industry and a keen enough mind to know manufacturing would soon be the way of the world.  
  
He begins to mull what would be the next best action to take. Back to England? To another European state? Or maybe...he has heard stories, of men fleeing across the Atlantic to the States and to Canada, to fledgling commerce there and being paid well for their trade secrets and he doesn't immediately dismiss that as an option.  
  
He hears rustling, later in the day in a tavern, of a spirited call by the Command of the Army of the Centre, for all those opposed to chaos to meet the next morning in support against the Jacobins and his stomach plummets. As he downs his ale, he knows, before he flees, he must try, he must attempt to come to the man's aid, as he always had tried to come to his and could not consciously survive his heart if he did not, and so resigned himself to the risk.  
  
He is Jack Ball, now, he tells himself. _Jack Ball_.  
  
John Laurens has been dead a long time.

* * *

It breaks his heart to see the lackluster turnout a couple of days later. There is a handful of people who show up, and a light that he was so accustomed to see in the Marquis' eyes as a younger man seems extinguished. As the men present quickly realize what such a lack of support means, they hurry away from the assembly hall, unwilling to be associated with such unpopular sentiments. Lafayette watches them go with disappointment etched on his features. John's collar is upturned, a pair of faux spectacles obscuring his face and a hat drawn low; he approaches the front of the room slowly to stand at the man's side, where Lafayette leans over a heavy wooden desk, scribbling notes in messy handwriting.  
  
"Monsieur Lafayette. I am sorry to see you were not more well received."  
  
Lafayette doesn't even blink, doesn't even look at him. "I had hoped for more support but I fear now it may be too late." He sighs, running a hand over his hair. "Extremist opinions have taken over and I worry what this means for our fair city."  
  
"You should take care of to whom you speak, and what you say," John warns, his voice gentle yet pointed. "I'm not sure that you, in such a high position and being so close to the nobility, can truly understand what is going on in the streets of Paris. You must be more cautious, sir."  
  
Lafayette finally turns to him, briefly to offer a frown, and makes a derisive sound from the bottom of his throat. He returns to his work, not even taking a full moment to review the other man, as soon as he presumes it to be an outsider. "If I want an opinion from a stranger on my affairs, I will ask for it."  
  
"You have to leave Paris," he warns sharply, grabbing the man's arm to get his attention and has to hold back a laugh at the sharp, indignant, _offended_ look the Frenchman shoots him. His wretched mind recalls, without conscious permission, many a long night at the tavern with other aides, the wrestling matches from the river, and he wonders if the man catches his eye and recognizes him. He has the luxury of being long dead, and expects Lafayette will never suspect it, but he cannot forget playful lips upon his own, soft mutterings in a tent with an impish tone numb with drink. It surprises him, the painful sense memory of the past, the longing for that lost intimacy. Perhaps even the innocence of youth, even during such a tumultuous time.  
  
He should be thankful, instead of forlorn, at the pit of cold rousing in his stomach. There is no recognition in the Marquis' gaze. The man responds in his sharp, native tongue, almost abusive, to rebuff and scold, but John straightens with renewed confidence, trying to match the Frenchman's height, but failing. It doesn't stop him.  
  
"Think of your family," He rails in French. "What of your wife, and your children? There is no one here for you, and you do not have enough dogs in either fight to win. The nobility believe you too sympathetic to liberty, the mob too attached to the rich. They will tear you apart, Gilbert."  
  
His given name lands as it was intended, and stops Lafayette's tirade dead. He looks as if he has received a great shock, as if he has been slapped across his face, and John steps back, realizing he's made a misstep with his impassioned plea, with the informality of how he has addressed the Colonel. But he has never learned before, and still hasn't now.  
  
"Have you seen the fighting in the streets?" He continues more gently, ducking his head. "Of course you have. They are too far gone, reason is beyond them. You cannot be lost, Monsieur. You must leave Paris."  
  
"Who are you?" The Marquis whispers, any argument made after his Christian name has been uttered now forgotten. He has grabbed onto John's arm to keep him in place as he studies him, searching, and John is struggling to pull it away. He is suddenly thankful for his ragged clothes, for his burly, unkempt facial hair and his aged skin; he is thankful for the time and space between them.  
  
"I am an Englishman," The lie slips out, easy between his lips. "And I've heard many times of your valor and honor, and I think it would be a pity for the world to lose a man like you."  
  
Lafayette shakes his head, even as the few supporters filter out to flee, and does not lessen his grip. "Those are not the words of an Englishman to a french officer."  
  
"Well maybe I'm not your average Englishman."  
  
"What is your name?" he insists, and his eyes are wide and he is breathing hard and suddenly he realizes, Gil's mind is running away with him, so he stills and he smiles softly and he calms. He draws on all the politics he ever learned from his father, all the faux southern gentility hidden behind an English accent and he places a calming hand on the other man now, leaning forward. It is a gamble but one that will pay off.  
  
"I don't know if that is of any importance. If you do not mind, sir, for my own safety, I would keep that to myself. What is important, is what you decide to do now."  
  
Gil blinks. Once then twice. John doesn't know the suspicion and hope that pokes at the Marquis's consciousness, but it is chased away soon by the more immediate realization that this supposed stranger is not wrong. He shakes his head.  
  
"Tu as raison."  
  
Lafayette doesn't drop his gaze as he grabs for his saber, and his gloves and his hat in a hurry. His expression is pitiable, and suddenly, John's heart aches with how old his friend looks. He wonders, for a moment, how old he looks as well. I still love you, he wants to tell him. _Please don't die_ , and so many memories from the war play through his mind _**brandywine** monmouth **Yorktown** ValleyForge_, and just _please_ don't die, I _can't tell_ you but please. Please.  
  
Instead, he settles for, "Please, General," He nods. "Bon Voyage."  
  
"Et toi, Monsiuer."  
  
And then he is gone.

* * *

  
Honor is an convenient thing to lean on, he thinks darkly to himself, when you're staring down the barrel of a gun and trying to die. It's a neat excuse, that you're doing it for _glory_ and _pride_ , when you know in reality, it's that you just can't stand the life you've been told you have to live.  
  
He hadn't expected to survive South Carolina; hadn't _wanted_ to, hadn't tried. Did everything he could to die, in fact, and yet, here he stood, on two good feet, ten years after the fact, on a ship bound back to the very place he'd escaped a little over a decade before.  
  
He shifts in his place, and there's an ache in his shoulder from an old battle wound. He'd have to mind that, he notes. Facial hair, time and age, a completely different look would help him stay hidden, but distinguishing features should he encounter old companions may provoke suspicion. In the end, however, he would just have to hope that the mind would believe what it wants to believe and most's first assumption would be of a doppelganger rather than a modern day Lazarus, especially if it's one resembling the favored son of a well known politician, one who had such a charmed life ahead of him, so much renown to gain.  
  
He would be able to keep to himself, he knew, in the North, where industry freshly bloomed in his native country. He pulls the portfolio closer to his body, squeezing tightly. Men were being arrested and killed for what he was doing; he almost laughs, wondering if he is still just playing the same game, a dangerous sport of chicken with his life. But his sketches and intimate knowledge of the machinery was sound, and he wants to contribute to this place he helped create, in one way or another. Yorktown comes back to him unbidden, and along with it, the memory of another man's smiling face, ink stained hands clenched around his own in victory, a sweet mouth...  
  
He shakes the thoughts away. Alexander was part of a past he must keep locked away, a past that belonged to another man long dead, and out of his reach. He shivers with the sea breeze as he contemplates how it might go should they cross paths once more, should Alexander recognize him, and it does not pan out well. Alexander would be furious, would call him the coward he knew himself to be.  
  
He has heard stories about how Alexander fares, of his spats with Thomas Jefferson and how he was able to put together a financial plan just like the ones they would talk about into the night in the dark of their tents. Alexander was fine, and Alexander would accept nothing aside from the truth, which was that John ran away from everything and everyone that he knew, and Hamilton, with his patented assuredness, would declare that a man of honor would never do such a thing, that he would never run away from difficulty or strife. He would find him only to lose him once more, and as much as he longed to exchange even mere pleasantries once more with his dear friend, he didn't know if he would survive the disapproval that would surely lead to their relationships' demise once and for all.  
  
He can see land now. The early morning dew chilled him to the bone and he pulls his coat tighter. It would get warmer as the sun rose, for it was barely September and not yet fall. He slipped his hand in his pocket, palming his money. He had enough to get a horse, he knew. All he needed was to get to Lowell, and he could find his way from there.  
  
He would get a small place, keep to himself and in a few years, maybe move onto somewhere new. He had chosen this, in place of fame and influence and political clout. There was sometimes, more than he would own up to, that his thoughts would wander back to that time, to the moment he ventured close to Mepkin, when he decided to go right instead of left and he thought of Martha, and _Frances_ , and Alexander, and Washington, and he ached for it.  
  
But then he would remember, that it would have never been the same as the war, there would be no distance, no secrecy, he would be restricted to some image he wasn't sure he could fulfill, and it quickly slipped away. A lifetime of scrutiny in the public eye meant never getting to be who he really wanted to be, and doing what he wanted to do and he had always been good at pretending when he was a young man but he didn't know how long that he could keep up the charade. It was one thing to cheat himself out of that, but it was something else to resign the ones he cared about to that same fate.  
  
He wanted his solitude, in the face of those concerns, or of danger and shame, if he couldn't have what he had aimed for at Combahee. He would do what he could, to take care of the country he had fought for, to honor the memory of his fallen friends and for his family and loved ones, even if they did not know it.  
  
He hears the man in the crows nest call for land, and an indiscernible feeling swells just under his ribs. _Home_.  
  
He will do what he can to contribute to the success of this country's future, and again, a smiling Alexander comes to him, very present in his mind. The memory of diatribes addressing how they would create a great nation are so sharp now, and the only thing he can do as the nerves hit is to hope that the things he has planned for his contributions, will be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of French is minimal, so basic stuff will be in French, but actual sentences will not be, because the translations are often so wonky.
> 
> My outline has 11 chapters. We'll see what happens. There will eventually be an OC love interest, i'm not saying who for, and DEFINITELY historical liberties I will be taking because Fanfiction, but I have done some research and will try to stick to what I can (Laf's meeting re: Jacobins, his subsequent attempt to flee Paris? TY wikipedia :) )
> 
> i'm over at [tumblr](http://cattlaydee.tumblr.com), come say hey.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't remember much of the time right after Combahee; not anymore. He had been rescued by someone not associated with the army, a farmer most likely, and the bullet wound had made it's way clean out his back. There had been an infection, a fever; there had been the slicing away of putrid flesh, and cauterization. He only has the memory of it being agonizing, but the pain itself is distant and unrecognizable. He remembers waking up, bandaged and half raw, and he was nursed back to health just long enough to be turned out. He wore nothing but old rags and a small pouch of coin his savior had given him, the man some kind of hermit, alone in the woods in a haphazard cabin, who spoke very little, and paid him even less mind. He wondered if he may have been a Loyalist, as he cited only Christ for his compassion, before closing the door in John's face.  
  
It had been a 3 days walk to Mepkin from where he'd convalesced. He didn't know where exactly that had been, but he assumed it was close to where he'd fallen. On his way north, to home, he had realized that it was near the end of October; he could feel it in the air, as it was just before dawn when he neared the plantation. The air was cool, but heavy with moisture. A haze hung all around him, and he breathed it in, deep, crisp and sharp to his lungs, and it pulled an ache from his still healing wound. He had closed his eyes and reveled in it. Shame shortly followed at the flare of contentment he felt at life in his veins. His men, all fallen he believed; only he had been spared.  
  
As he had drawn closer to the property, dread pooled in his belly. As far as he had known, his father would still be in France with his sister and her family. He knew that his wife would have to be sent for, now that the war was over, and he wondered if she had left her family to stay with his own on the journey they would surely soon take to return to the States. With _Frances_.  
  
That had elicited a different sort of worry.  
  
Who had looked after the homestead then, he'd wondered? Had they even received word of his demise? Did his family believe him to still be alive? Recuperating for weeks had left him with no contact with anyone, surely someone had wondered. Would they be surprised, to see him? Aggravated, after the lack of correspondence? He wondered if it would be the normal staff of the home maintaining it, if they would nod demurely and show him directly to his quarters. He would, of course, have to insist upon immediately writing his father and sister to tell them of the news. And then to Alexander.  
  
The thought of his compatriot had warmed every bit of him that may have been cold, but it was soon suppressed by the knowledge of his friend's marriage and impending parenthood. What place could he possibly have in his life now, after everything they had shared? Alexander had urged him to peace, to take up the law with him and serve in Congress, but the last thing John looked forward to in his life was serving with men just like his father, half sanctimonious, their other half duplicitous and cunning. He hated the game of politics, the half truths and cards up their sleeves. He preferred forthrightness and candor, but he had never seen a political forum where that had been appropriate and so Congress was decidedly not for him.  
  
But then, whatever was? Without combat, he surely had not known. The pit of dread in his belly had only grown deeper.  
  
He had come upon the family plot as he neared the main drive, which began now only a little under a mile from where he stood and stopped for a moment to say kind words to his mother and siblings long dead. He was surprised to find a fresh plot and as he neared the recently placed marker, his face blanched in surprise.  
  
**_"Sacred to the memory of John Laurens, Son of Henry and Eleanor Laurens..."_**  
  
His breath caught in his chest, an array of feelings blossoming with it. Who lay here, under dirt where grass had begun to barely grow? It could only be a few weeks laid; he wondered, had the body come in a pine box? Wrapped in a shroud? Had they even looked upon it's face to see if it were the right one?  
  
_Unlikely,_ he'd thought to himself. He knew what battle torn bodies looked like, what they looked like after a couple days in the field in the heat and the wild, and he expected whomever looked after the family's property now knew that as well. With the rest of them so far away, there would have been no time to deliberate. He would imagine they had taken the word of whomever had delivered the body, likely a farmer or another kind of militia man who wanted to be done with this conflict and go home to his family.  
  
So the homecoming would be doubly shocking.  
  
_If you so choose to go home_ , a small voice whispered internal, treacherous in nature. It startled him, the idea he had only once or twice fantasized about, but standing in front of his makeshift grave, he realized that the opportunity had optimally arisen and his mind began to build onto it.  
  
He turned his gaze in the direction of the main house. The sun had broken above the horizon and the heat settled through the haze like a thick blanket, the air suddenly suffocating. He looked at some wildflowers he had plucked on his walk in to lay on his mother's grave. He remembered, as a child with his brothers, going out to play and coming back to her with bouquets that made her smile, every summer until she passed when the last baby came.  
  
He split the bouquet into a few different parts. Each of the children got their own flower, his mother got three and he held one last bloom in his hand. He twirled it slowly between his fingers. John Laurens lay dead before him, with all the glory and honor of a soldier in battle. To be resurrected meant to take on a mantle he had never really desired. He used his free hand to palm at the pouch on his hip, full of coins. Enough for passage on a ship. Enough to get him...somewhere. Somewhere else.  
  
He had looked back once more in the direction of his home. Of his _home_. He swallowed hard, a sharp twisting deep in his chest as he realized he already knew what he was going to do. His father would make sure that Martha and Frances were taken care of appropriately. They would receive his payment for his duration as an officer in the Army in the service of General Washington. His daughter would receive only the best of educations. And his loved ones would never be burdened with his disingenuous presence, never suffer from the feeling that you were not enough for the person you called husband or father.  
  
He squatted and placed the flower on the freshly dug mound and whispered a soft, brief prayer before standing. He had bitten his lip, licked it, then stepped back.  
  
And then, he had simply walked away.

* * *

  
He remembers Boston, briefly, from the one or two times he visited during the war. The battles that took place close to the city were before his time in the Army, so he has no experience in that arena, but he remembers visiting the city itself, remembers walking along the wharves, which seem to have only grown more busy and alive. His breath catches as he realizes it's been almost 15 years since he's been here-it doesn't feel like that long.  
  
He lugs his pack onto his back with one arm and pulls his coat closed tightly with his other free hand, smoothing it down the front of his torso. He swallows hard, and feels his heart's pace pick up in his chest. The odds that he will run into someone he knew here, someone that may recognize him, are slim, but it doesn't alleviate the anxiety that has settled within him. He feels fortunate that they have come to land so early, and with the lack of people milling about, he expects it will not be too great a task to find a horse and be on his way. He had spoken to some of the merchants during the trip about some of the mills along the coast, and had ascertained some understanding of the network of workshops in the Northeast. He was able to get the names of a few towns that had newer mills, ones that may be in some more dire need of expertise, and he had planned it out to visit each, if it were necessary, and speak to the millers as he offered his services. Whomever took him up on it first would be where his new home would take root.  
  
He's able to haggle for an older mare, cheap but agreeable. He pays the stable hand quickly and heads on his way, being careful to avoid anything other than casual conversation. His hat is pulled low over his face, and he kicks at the beast's flank, urging her forward and out of the city square toward a country road.  
  
He finds he has missed this, as he settles on a relatively bare dirt path out of the city. He had spent most of his time in Europe in the  cities, which often had a stench associated with them he didn't think he'd very soon forget. The mass of people made it easy to blend in, but the quiet serenity that he feels as the sun rises above the trees this morning makes him close his eyes and breathe deeply.  
  
He was a very different man now, than who he'd been when he went to Europe. He had left full of a sort of anger in his youth, at himself or just at the world, he hadn't known. It had lain within him, tight and coiled and white hot, and he had suffered at it's whims, in plenty of taverns and battlefields his friends from that time could attest to. Age, experience and distance had alleviated that, and though he was still one to be occasionally impertinent or ill-tempered, he felt an ease with the world he never had as a younger man. His mind drift and begins to reconsider his time away, as it will take a few hours for the trip and he has plenty to occupy his mind.  
  
He had ended up on the streets of London, the cheapest thoroughfare he was able to find on short notice, and had become a drifter in the bustling city. His hair had grown dirty and hung in tangles, his facial hair untended to and scraggly.  
  
He had been at the mercy of charity and he had been fine with it.  
  
He had offered commissioned drawings for a nominal fee, taken shelter in alleys and doorways, and made his way as inconspicuously as possible. He would sketch anything and everything; from people, to nature, to buildings and eventually, he sketched the wrong thing-or the right, depending at how one looked at it -because he sketched some machinery outside a factory, fascinated with all of the little parts that clicked together to make it all work. He'd seen the inside of them, seen how they put together bales of cotton, making them into shirts and pants so much faster than the time that his mother and sisters used to be able to sew garments, and he became amazed with the industry, he could not believe the innovations, and soon he was drawing them daily, from different angles and different focuses. One day, when he was being more careless than usual, a man watched him from the inside and confronted him immediately for it.  
  
He can't help but smile as he thinks of it now, how stupid he must have looked. He had stood there for a moment, mouth agape, and his coal pencil just above the parchment. He was certain he was about to be beaten, or sent to prison, or worse. The old man, in his fine waistcoat with a pocket-watch that hung from a chain, looked absolutely furious and John had cowered away from him as his drawings were snatched from his grasp. The fury didn't take long to drain from the man's face, though, as he flipped through the portfolio.  
  
He ended up complimenting them. John had felt himself examined by the man, covered in grime and soot and god knew what else, frowning a bit at his state of being, but ended up inviting him into the mill. He told him that he was talented with his art and that they could use a man like him to help them document the different parts of the mill.  
  
Once the man realized John knew four languages and was a veritable goldmine of business acumen, that had been that, and his position at the factory had solidified. He was used as he was needed, but was never presented as a partner or owner of the mill-he was a beggar off the street, after all, with no money to an unrecognizable name. The name he had given was Ball, for his mother; he had asked to be called Jack, for the memory he associated it with from his father.  
  
He lets his mind wander for another couple of hours until he begins to see a few more cottages, a smattering of small stores and sees the sign for Plainfield. He pulls back on the reins, hushing at the mare to slow to a walk out of the trot and pulls off to the side of the road and ties her to a post outside. It's the first shop he sees, and he goes inside to ask for directions, offering only the name of the miller that he was given on the ship. The shop owner asks no questions, and seems just to be happy to have someone in the store, so he buys some bread, and some water for the remainder of his trip; if his offer is not accepted, then he will need to continue on to the next town. With an appreciative nod to the man behind the counter, he turns and leaves the shop, continuing on his way.  
  
He soon finds himself on a long beaten path, the scent of elms hanging heavy in the air, surrounding him like a canopy. He comes upon the mill he was directed to, and finds it nowhere near as impressive as where he had worked in England, but that is part of the reason he's here. He is heartened to see there is much work to be done, that there is _promise_.  
  
He knocks on the door and waits for someone to answer. He stands, his back straight as a rail, with his portfolio folded behind him at the small of his back. The man who opens the door regards him warily at first, but then reading his posture, spying the leather bound folder at his back, frowns. He steps out onto the front steps, letting the loose door fall closed behind him. He sizes John up immediately, and offers a heavy sigh.  
  
"I don't have the resources to bring someone else on right now. But I appreciate your interest."  
  
"You have not even heard what I can offer you." John steps forward, holding the portfolio out insistently. "Please, hear me out. I apprenticed in London. I have drawings I could show you."  
  
The man doesn't say a word, but moves to grab the outstretched selections with uncertainty. He sighs, makes a noise with his nose, and examines him more closely, trying to read him more thoroughly.  
  
"Jack Ball," John offers, a soft nod to accompany his introduction. "Originally from the colonies. Apprenticed in Lancashire for 7 years before spending a year or so in Paris for business."  
  
The miller scoffs a little, rolling his eyes, but he pages through what John has handed him. His expression softens, now receptive and curious. His eyes flit up to find John's for a moment, before moving back down to the papers.  
  
"These are very good. Very interesting. But it does not change the fact that my resources are stretched very thin."  
  
John feels his chest open a little bit more. Stretched thin is different than non-existent, so he pulls himself to stand taller, offers a soft, confident smile.  
  
"There's 10 other men trying to get ahead in industry that would jump at an opportunity for this sort of information." He gestures toward the papers, now settling his hands at his hips. The miller scoffs once more, flipping through the pages again.  
  
"Then why aren't you bothering them?" He casts a critical look at him, but his expression soon begins to relax, as he starts to realize the severity of the opportunity and with a heavy sigh, straightens up as well. He hands the book back to John, sighs and shrugs.  
  
"I can't pay you as well as they would." He admits, shaking his head. "But I have a spare hovel on the edge of the property that you can have for free, along with board as long as you work alongside whatever I can spare you in payment; I have three other men working for me, and we all chip in to maintain then place. It'll be enough to live on, at least. Food in your mouth, clothes on your back."  
  
"Done."  
  
The miller's eyes grow wide, and John supposes that maybe he's not the first man that's shown up on his stoop requesting opportunity, but his demands are much more minimal. There isn't much he needs, and even less that he wants. But what he does want, is some semblance of solitude. He wants, to live out his day, in relative obscurity, to make enough for clothes on his back and food in his mouth.  
  
He had no friends in Europe. No one close enough to miss. _So,_ he thinks briefly to himself, maybe he wouldn't mind, after all this time, making some again; the memory of his encounter with Lafayette in Paris is still fresh for him and the surprising feeling of want for some kind of attachment has not yet fully faded. The miller seems a little rough, but he supposes most people do when you first meet them.  
  
The miller introduces himself as Edward, and nods sharply, taking John's hand and shaking it.  
  
"Alright then. Let's get you over to meet the others, and get you settled."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it won't be 1month+ for all the other updates...hopefully. I really do have an actual outline, and notes and all sorts of stuff. it's just...life. and other ideas.

The winter arrives quickly, and days seem to pass imperceptibly. He works mostly with Edward at the beginning, although he has been introduced to the the three others who work the mill and has found them to be mostly agreeable men. Thomas is an older man, widowed after the war and his children gone from the family home that he left to his youngest, so now he shares the main house with Edward and rattles around, a curmudgeon with a slight limp from the French and Indian War. Edward tells John not to pay him any mind, and John doesn't. Eventually, Thomas begins to remind him fondly of some of the other older superior officers from the revolution, how after a long hard day of battle they would sit around after supper with their Madeira, and brandy, and rail about the old days of glory, and he begins to find the ill-tempered man somewhat endearing.  
  
There's a younger man as well. He's in his early twenties, unmarried but trying his best to change that, and orphaned in his teens by disease and the war. He was taken in by Edward in word as an apprentice, though neither of them really knew what they were doing when Edward was gifted the old, broken down thing by an Uncle of his. Sam is smart, and enthusiastic, and eager to learn. He latches onto John quickly, follows him around during the day asking questions as John inspects the machinery and wheel outside, helps him to take the terrain as he survey's the land for potential improvements on how to manipulate the river to maximize their throughput. He asks him about Europe, too, about the people there, and about the British. He is young enough, having only been a child when the war would've begun, so he doesn't quite remember what it was like under the rule of the Redcoats, but he doesn't like them, as is custom in the states.  
  
The **_states_**. John cannot help but smile when the thought comes to him when it is referenced. Often, before he can stop it, he's transported to a tent in Virginia, where the General looks ready to weep with relief and joy, and Hamilton's hand is next to his, his fingers tickling John's own, and he allows himself to revel in the memory for just a moment or two. He always shakes it away though and fields more eager questions. None of them know of his service in the war, none of them know where he's from or the things he's done outside of what is relevant to the work of the mill. He would prefer to keep it that way for as long as possible.  
  
The last man is a little closer to his own age, and doesn't open up as easily as Sam. There's another small cabin, a little bigger than the shanty he stays in, where both Sam and Jasper live, closer to the main home. It's a decent plot of land, he's found through his excursions, and he's never really heard the whole story of how Edward's uncle came to be the owner of it; was he, himself, a merchant? An entrepreneur? Milling in the colonies was a new endeavor and so to be left a mill, no matter the shape it was in, was a curious happenstance.  
  
Jasper had apparently come to the mill shortly after the war ended, a native of the South if his accent was any indication. He was polite to John, would nod and do as was asked, answer any questions John may have, but never initiated any sort of discussion at all.  
  
"It's just his way," Sam offers an unsolicited explanation one day, as they hike into the woods. "He's wary of outsiders, and I think the war left him more skeptical of..." He cuts off then, his eyes going wide as though he realizes he is speaking out of turn, but John can tell what he is going to say.  
  
"Of the British." John finishes for him, keeping his eyes forward as he passes by an oak tree, sizing it up. It was getting colder with every day and they had been working on collecting enough firewood so that they would not deplete their supplies until when the snow would begin to thaw; John's dwelling was small, and remote, and he was unsure of how harsh the winter would be. Valley Forge had been unseasonably cold and he wanted to make sure he did everything in his power to not suffer from it once again. He'll gather Edward and Jasper to come back out later, he thinks to himself, maybe in a few days, to cut down some more of the trees. He looks around, taking in his surroundings, hoping he can remember the way, and continues on.  
  
"He doesn't dislike you----"  
  
"He just doesn't trust me."  
  
"That's not it," Sam replies quickly, but he doesn't sound very convincing. John turns to him finally, with a half smile that he hopes is as reassuring as he intends it to be.  
  
"Sam. It's alright. I'm not here to be friends with everyone." He nods past the younger man, indicating that they head back and Sam rounds as well, falling into step next to him. "Besides, it's only November. Haven't really gotten the opportunity, right?"  
  
He lets the boy lead him back to the main house and he peels off after that to return to where he lives so he can write down some notes from their hike and perhaps take care of some things around where he now calls home.  
  
The space he occupies is small, and consists of mostly just one big room. His cot is in the corner, a normal bed with enough room for maybe two people, if they were in close proximity with one another. There is a desk on the other side of the room from that, flimsy but it serves it's purpose. On the other, an old, worn vanity where a basin rests for him to wash up in the mornings and the evenings, and finally, an area for him to eat in the other corner, though he takes his lunch and supper with the rest of the men at the main home at Edward's insistence.  
  
They're a strange group, he's decided. In some ways, they keep to themselves-Thomas harangues Edward and grouses about anything, really; Sam seems to like him, which is nice-it makes him think of Jemmy, who was only 3 years the boys' senior, and it makes him wonder how he would've turned out if not for the accident. He knows he has to be careful with that, that he cannot get too attached to the young man. And then Jasper...hopefully Jasper will warm to him. He can't force a friendship, and if it doesn't, he'll just stay out of his way. Maybe it's jealousy, maybe he feels threatened, or maybe it's really the fact that he comes from Europe, maybe he is just determined not to welcome John here. If that's the case, that's fine-3 out of the 4 aren't bad.  
  
He just wants to be sure not to cause any undue trouble. 

* * *

When the harshest point of the winter hits, it is, thankfully, not as bad as Valley Forge. It is also, not pleasant.  
  
It is times like this he wishes he would have stayed in South Carolina.  
  
Luckily, the other men had agreed to his aggressive collection of supplies for the season. There had been some dissent when the work was being done but now that they were not having to go look for firewood that was dry enough to use in the middle of a light blizzard, they have, on more than one occasion, commented on how prudent it was that they had prepared so fully.  
  
Where he stays is small, and not too terrible of a trek to the main home, and so Edward is insistent about John visiting in the evening, either with them, or at Sam and Jasper's cottage. The shack he lives in is not terribly substantial and does not have it's own hearth, or at least enough of one to heat him all night. He sleeps under multiple blankets, even an animal pelt or two, which he finds, are in fact incredibly effective. But for meals and many of his nights, he shares a splash of whiskey and sits near a fire while the others talk.  
  
That, he finds, it one of the most surreal experiences. They discuss work, and some comings and goings of the main area in town, but Edward will always get a paper, at least once a week, and so sometimes the discussion wanders toward the state of the country and Washington will get brought up, Adams will get brought up, the damned pamphlets that are printed in the papers of mudslinging will get brought up and Publius' quill blazes with more words than he probably needs and that old familiar ache bubbles within once more.  
  
"I'm going to retire, I think." He frequently bows out, often finding an excuse, and he rises up and wraps himself up in his layers, and he trudges away, always by himself, into the dark where he retires to his bed and passes out.

Tonight, through, is different.  
  
Jasper surprises him, standing and stretching as he does with a nod. "I'll walk with you. About time for me to turn in as well."

The trail to his own place is the only path in the wilderness, a well worn path that passes by the small cabin where Jasper and Sam stay. As the other man peels off, he stops and looks at John in the shadows, sizing him up before calling to him when John makes the move to keep on.  
  
"Come on in and get one more glass of whiskey, eh? It's still early, i think."  
  
It was. His plan was to go huddle under his blankets, maybe try and read a bit by candlelight if he could avoid lighting himself on fire. He looks back towards the main home, where Sam and Thomas have been deep in a spirited discussion about what the government should and should not be doing, knowing that he surely doesn't want to return to that, so he nods and he follows Jasper into the cottage.  
  
Jasper makes quick work at the small hearth and he motions to a box for John to take that rests there in front. He pours some liquor into some sloppy looking ceramic mugs and hands one to John, who nods his thanks. Jasper takes the floor, leaning back as he sits as close to the flames as he can and stares into it silently, his eyes closing as he soaks in the warmth.  
  
"You find the topic of government disquieting?" Jasper asks after a few moments, but he doesn't open his eyes to look at John. There's a tone to the question, almost accusatory and very nearly snarky, and the wind goes out of John's sails. He sits in silence for a few moments, and swishes the liquor in the glass; he says nothing.  
  
"You speak as if you hail from the south," Jasper tries once more, and this time, swings his gaze toward him lazily, a smirk on his face. "So what. Raised as a Loyalist, fled to the mother country when stuff went south and now that Europe is going to shit you come crawling back?"  
  
He has to still himself. He has to literally bite his tongue and close his eyes and breathe through his nostrils, because damn this man. He thinks of Brandywine, and of the Redoubt at Yorktown and of Combahee, and how he and his friends have paid, in blood and pain, so **how dare he,** and he knows he's had a few fingers worth of whiskey and he can not still his tongue in his head. The thrum in his veins is familiar but something he hasn't felt in almost a decade, when he was young and impetuous and quick to fight. He swallows, thankful for years of learned self-discipline since then, and wins against the whiskey in his veins. He takes a deep breath.  
  
"You speak so assuredly when you know absolutely nothing about me."  
  
His tone is like ice, and Jasper almost looks amused and John neck grows warm as he realizes he's played right into the man's hands. And so he can clamp down and storm out. ** _Or_** he can take a deep breath, another sip of the amber liquid in his cup and he can clear the air.  
  
He sips at the mug. Sucks on his lips, and swallows; he sighs.  
  
"I wasn't a loyalist."  
  
Jasper's eyebrows rise in partial surprise, and he shifts onto hip, facing more towards John, who sighs once more and slides from the box onto the floor, closer to the fire. He curls in on himself, holds the mug closer to his chest and looks down.  
  
"Were you a patriot?"  
  
Patriot is a loaded word, he thinks now that the war is far behind him, one he has a hard time embracing. Patriot meant something different to everyone, during the war; in the South, patriot meant colonial rights, and slavery and to him, it was sometimes the same, sometimes different. So he shifts, and doesn't meet Jasper's gaze. "I fought for the colonists during the war, if that's what you're getting at."  
  
At this, Jasper perks. "Oh yeah? Under who?"  
  
And now he has to be careful. He's thought about it before, how he would approach it if the subject was ever introduced, and so he knows what he wants to say, has planned out how he will skirt the issue.  
  
"The northern theater," Is all he answers, evenly. He knows Jasper wants him to offer more, wants to know his rank, maybe some details of the battles he found himself in but he doesn't ask, which John is thankful for. Instead he launches into his own experience, talking about serving in the Artillery, about being at Yorktown, and about how it felt when they finally won and it occurs to John that he never really got involved with the lesser ranking soldiers outside of leading them into skirmishes, and he feels slightly ashamed.  
  
"So you fought in the war," Jasper begins. "But you went straight to Britain anyway?"

The questions has an accusatory feel to it, but at this, John doesn't balk. It's understandable to be skeptical of such a thing; even before he climbed onto the ship heading away from the States, he never would have believed it to be something he'd do. But there are things, he's found, that happen to you that you could never have anticipated, and he's learned to never say never, because there's dozens of things he's done he swore wouldn't ever happen.  
  
"I had never," He looks down at the mug, sniffs once to ward off a sneeze as he chooses his words carefully. "I had never been in battle, before the war. And there were other...it was...a lot." He shrugs, look back at Jasper finally with a grim smile. "And I needed a change."  
  
Jasper softens then, John can see his shoulders sag and something dark plays across his face before he looks into the flames, and John sympathizes with the haunted expression that flits across it for a moment before it's gone once more. Jasper, knowing he's given something else away, only nods.  
  
"Yea. That sounds about right."  
  
John finishes his drink with a heavy gulp, wincing at the burn when it hits his belly, and he nods his head, shakes a shiver and moves to stand. He thanks Jasper for the drink but still doesn't look at him. Jasper walks him out, and he trudges back to his shack in the snow, alone. 

* * *

The winter thaws, and so too does Jasper's animosity. John finds himself spending more time in the young men's cabin instead of the main house, where they usually sit around the fire telling stories. Or rather, Sam and Jasper tell stories; John is more than happy to just listen, and doesn't take the bait when Jasper mentions the war, and looks over at him expectantly. Eventually, he stops altogether. Instead, they end up discussing the mill, and the town, and what the next few months may bring.  
  
The spring comes quickly, and with it, fresh new activity from the main area of town and more inquiries than they wouldn't have expected during the winter. The demand grows as the weather fares better, and John, now at the beginning instead of the tail end of the season, becomes daunted at their situation. The mill is basic and in order to turn enough of a profit to keep in business, will need some improvements, as simple as they may be, that would make it a suitable alternative to the townsfolk traveling to the coast where larger, more robust mill work was being done.  
  
Edward was not ignorant of any of this. "My Uncle, God rest his soul, opened this as a passion project at the tail end of the war, and died for it," He had groused one day in the early spring, as the two of them walked the land to see what the winter had wrought. Fallen trees were an issue, or a blessing, diverting the run of the river in ways that could wreak havoc on their process; a heavy snowfall in the right places, though, would cause the river to rise and the current to flow swiftly. "Not sure what it was, but I was his favorite. I tried to tell him I sure as hell don't know nothing about this type of work but," He threw his hands up, shaking his head as he smoothed his hand over thinning hair. "I sure do appreciate your help, Jack, but I'm sorry we're not much to work with."  
  
John liked Edward, he has come to quickly realize. Though firm and blunt, he was also fair and kindly, especially to the youngest of their crew. Because of that, John was reluctant to be anything but completely honest with the man when it came to how the business should be run, even if it wasn't exactly what he may have wanted to hear.  
  
"The improvements will be of a cost, and if you have anything extra, we will have to invest to improve upon it. The good news is that they won't be terribly difficult."  
  
"The bad news, is that the money is not as easy to find." Edward had replied with a grimace. That had been in March though, just upon the burgeoning spring.

Now, as the end of April creeps closer, Edward knocks on his little shanty before bursting in without permission. If John was annoyed (he is), he ignores it, only looking up from his reading to acknowledge his employer with a patient, expectant expression. Edward is grinning widely, a folded piece of correspondence in his hand.  
  
"Jack, have you heard of the Society for Establishing Useful Manufactures?"  
  
John had not.  
  
But Edward barrels forward, thrusting the letter to him. "It is an experiment I had heard about during the winter and wrote to the Capital to ask about it and would you _believe_ it, I've had some response? I know I should have asked you for your advice, but I didn't think, I didn't want to...would you believe, The Secretary of the Treasury was interested in your experience in Europe and wants to visit? Jack, he's talking about giving us money to help."  
  
John understands the bit about the money but everything in his veins has turned to ice when Edward starts to trip over himself, trying to explain what a subsidy is, even when he doesn't seem to himself. He's laid down the letter on John's table, and he's still smiling, because he says, he told the man in charge that they needed certain things, to help the town.  
  
"Read it, Jack! It wouldn't be much, we'll never be Boston, but it could help. What do you think?"  
  
John picks up the letter, swallowing hard before looking down, seeing a familiar scrawl that makes his chest ache. His eyes almost immediately find the signature at the bottom, an almost perfect "A. Hamilton" signed off without much postscript. As he skims the letter, he sees that Alexander has done his best to simplify his financial theory, and succeeded in basically explaining that upon a visit, if he were to decide the mill to be an appropriate choice, would begin to receive a stipend quarterly to invest in improving the infrastructure and optimizing their production.  
  
He looks up from the parchment to regard Edward. The man has never seemed too keenly invested in the mill. By his own admission, it was his Uncle's endeavor that he had taken over in honor of the man's wishes, but now he see's something in his face-not necessarily the wild abandon that accompanies the way a man looks when he's set upon his dreams but something more like contentment, or relief. This is a man who has taken John in and given him a chance on nothing but his own word and sketches, and he realizes quickly he cannot just shy away from it because he doesn't want to deal with his past. He sighs and rubs at his brow.  
  
"How would you like me to help?"  
  
Edward begins to lay out a simple plan, asking him to write a few pages of correspondence out for him to the Secretary, asking him to enumerate a few steps they want to take to improve the place. He wants to make it clear that they are a small business, that they have no dreams of becoming too large, that they have no desire to compete with the business that have multiple mills like those on the coast, but with moderate assistance they may be able to really become a foundation of the community. John can't bring himself to deny him.  
  
"He says in the letter he would like to visit in the middle of May, before his summer holiday with his family, so could you draft it within the week so I can send it off? Will that be a problem, Jack?" His tone isn't dictatorial, but eager and genuine, and John realizes that Edward is kind of going out on a limb here, that he is not sure of himself and John nods.  
  
"I think that will be fine." He sets the parchment down in front of himself, folding it once more as he forces a smile. "I will have something for you by the end of the week. But I believe it may be best for you to copy it in your hand, for you to sign your name. You do own the mill, after all."  
  
Edward looks at him uncertainly and suddenly John is curious about the request that he submitted to the office of the Treasury. It's uncommon for those in Edward's position to be well learned, but he knows the man can read and write a little. "I can help you, if you need."  
  
He can see the older man flush, but he still nods. "You're probably right. But you will meet with him, when he visits? Show him around the property, explain the improvements? You would be much better versed than I, Jacky."  
  
Edward has never used the by-name before and it seems to surprise them both, belying the owner's eagerness. John lets the silence hang between them, knowing full well he cannot deny the request. He nods slowly, forces the smile, pushing down the pang that he gets at the man's friendly nickname.  
  
"Of course, Ed. It would be my pleasure to show him around." He hands the letter back, stretching his smile wider, trying to match the owner's enthusiasm though his stomach spins into knots. "I look forward to meeting Mr. Hamilton. I'm sure we will have much to discuss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had every intention of being further with this by this chapter, in terms of familiar other characters showing up but. i'm trying to build something with the OC's, as they can be so troublesome to deal with.
> 
> the SEUM was how I originally got the idea for this story, because I think it's super interesting AHam had the foresight to understand how important manufacturing would someday be. It's unfortunate that his friend was such a crook (see: the stuff about William Duer in Chernow's bio) and kind of stained the organization and the idea of the gov't investing in private sector stuff because of corruption (politicians are THE WOOOORST).
> 
> I've tried to get the mill stuff as accurate as possible but a lot of mills outside of the popular cities didn't really start springing up until the 1790s.
> 
> my [tumblr](http://cattlaydee.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

May, 1793  
  
John hasn't slept much in three days.  
  
Alexander will be staying in town, which is a mile or so out from the mill's property. Edward had been kind enough to offer his own room at the main house, telling John he would find somewhere else to sleep, but graciously-as gracious as Alexander was known to be, that was-the Secretary of the Treasury had declined.  
  
_Thank God for small favors,_ John muses.  
  
There's a soft spring drizzle that has been off and on all day, the morning Alexander is to arrive. It's a two days ride from the Capital in Philadelphia, and it's coming up on the weekend. He has not left his room, has dressed and redressed, has picked at the fine linens he's gotten tailored in town, tugs at the sleeves and cannot get over how small the clothes feels.  
  
He has been kept awake almost all night by his imagination. What will Alexander do? Will he yell and scream, will he be calm? Will he know him at all? It has been over a decade, it has been a spell, and yes, he has his facial hair, and his age, and he has time, but will it be enough? He has seen Alexander's temper, he has been on the losing end of it, but only when the stakes were as high as a friendly bet or a game of cards. What would happen to his place now? What will happen to his place here at the mill if they find out who he is, and what he has done?  
  
Edward sends Jasper to fetch him once the carriage arrives, and he tells the man that he will be there in a moment. He waits until the footsteps fade in the distance, and then he emerges from his hovel, and stands up straight, pulling his waistcoat so the wrinkles fall from it.  
  
Then he promptly and, more smoothly than he would've expected, bends over to the side of his door and retches into the leaves.  
  
Once he has wiped the spittle from his chin with a spare handkerchief, he plods up to the main building which houses their wheel well with dread. Edward will be speaking with Alexander first, establishing himself first and foremost as the owner of the mill; while John is there as an expert resource, the final decisions lay at the authority of the mill owner and he had been sure to make sure Edward knew to establish that. Alexander was a strong personality, and he knew that Edward would have to make sure it was clear who was in charge here, or else Alexander may feel he could just take up running the mill on his own.  
  
He paces towards the back of the mill, breathing in and out deeply, nodding his head with his thoughts and his footfalls, going over what he will explain about the movement of the river, and the water wheel, and how a few of the implementations so far, while essential, are also very rudimentary and will need to be improved upon if they are to make any progress in innovating their processes.  
  
He doesn't think about what will happen if- _when_ -Alex recognizes him. He does not think about what Edward, or Jasper, or Sam, will say or do.  
  
He hears the door to Edward's office open, and he hears the muffled voices coming from what in, hears the well assured, strong laugh he's only heard in dreams for the past decade and suddenly, he knows, he can't do this. Not like this.  
  
He looks about the room and slides toward the door as he hears Edward explain that Jack will be waiting for the Secretary near the millstones, and as he hears the footsteps head his way, he loses all his nerve ( _coward_ , his mind whispers) and he slips out the side of the 1st floor, the thin wood door smacking shut behind him softly.  
  
He stands still, flush up against the side of the mill's stone wall, breathing softly. It doesn't latch all the way, and he can hear them speak only feet away, Edward's voice tinged with confusion and concern.  
  
"I know I sent Jasper to fetch him," He comments, and John can practically see the man spinning about in the room. "I can go to where he stays, if you'd like, and see what the hold up is."  
  
"Whichever works easiest for you, sir," Hamilton responds politely, but John can hear the hitch in his tone, indicating irritation, and John shakes his head with an eye roll at the impatience. He hears the footsteps retreat toward the front of the mill once more and he takes the opportunity to creep away from the exit and out towards the back of the mill once more, and follows the river away from his room and towards a nearby old tavern where he and Jasper have taken to visiting after hours some days of the week.  
  
It will be better, he tells himself, to talk to Alex face to face, in the privacy of his dwelling perhaps, away from the mill, away from prying eyes. While he could hope all he wanted that Alex would not realize who this man was, he knew, deep somewhere within himself, that that was not something that would be realized; for he knew that he would know Alex anytime, anywhere, no matter the circumstances, and that it was very likely the man would be the same way towards himself. He would go to him tomorrow, he decides with a nod, surely convinced, and would tell Edward that he was not feeling well, that he had been nervous. He would apologize.  
  
Everything would go better tomorrow.

* * *

He doesn't take too much drink anymore; it's become common enough practice for he and Jasper to grab a pint or two at the end of a long day, but it usually ends shortly after that. And he certainly never drinks whiskey.  
  
He's on his second glass now.  
  
His head is bent over a small round table in the corner where he sits facing another empty chair and a wall, and he sips at the glass, thinking of what he will say to Edward. The man's likely to be furious. The potential for some kind of assistance hinges largely on Hamilton believing they are worth the investment and after Edward has heavily sold the subject matter expert he had brought on the summer before, he's sure, knowing enough about Alexander, that this will only sour his opinion of the mill.  
  
"Are you Jack Ball?" A voice comes from behind him, and he imagines what the man must look like, all of 5'9", standing tall, a pinched look on his face, his hands bunched behind his back. His shoulders would be tense, with restrained irritation.  
  
Son of a _bitch_.  
  
He stiffens in his seat, but doesn't turn. His grip on the glass tightens. The voice continues.  
  
"Edward told me it was customary for you to come here after a days work and I was hoping, since you were absent at the mill, that maybe you were already here." Alexander's tone is tight, and clipped. He's _clearly_ annoyed and before John can say or do much of anything, he continues. "I will try and give you the benefit of the doubt, sir, and I don't know anything about you, but if you were trying to avoid me, I must have you know, I am taking this endeavor very seriously, and am quite interested to hear about your experiences across the sea. May I join you, if you are not otherwise occupied?"  
  
Which he obviously wasn't. John sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment of respite before which will surely be a long night. He gestures to the seat across from him, bowing his head further and he hears Alexander call to to the tavern lady for an ale. He wonders, wryly, what the odds are that it may end up on him once it arrives.  
  
John rubs his hand over his face as Alexander settles in, lets his hand scratch at the moderate beard there, and wonders, for one last moment of optimism, if maybe it will be enough.  
  
He looks up and the tavern woman is setting the drink in front of Alexander, and without a look at the man across from him for the moment, picks it up and takes a deep drag from it. John watches him now, for the first time in over a decade, and for a second merely enjoys it. Alexander is older, like himself, but he's still there, wrinkles and added weight and all. John almost laughs-domesticity has agreed with him, but he still looks exhausted and he wonders to what degree Alex has thrown himself into his role as a member of Washington's cabinet.  
  
Alexander grins widely as he sets the glass down, and sits back. He finally looks up at John and he opens his mouth to speak but his words catch in his throat, and John sees the color drain from his face.  
  
John doesn't say anything. He won't answer to anything that isn't directly asked of him and so he waits as Alexander seems to sputter over what he wants to say or do and then, his eyelids flutter and he presses a hand to his chest.  
  
"I beg your pardon," Alex asks softly, grabbing for his mug with his free hand and taking another huge swig. "You bear a strong resemblance to someone who was...quite dear to me, for a time. I apologize if I seem taken aback in any way."  
  
"I'm sorry to cause any distress of the sort." John replies in earnest, and it's then, at the sound and intonation of his voice, that Alexander stiffens and he leans forward in his seat and squints. If it were possible, he pales more.

It's the initial spark of joy and hope that kills him the most. But Alex is brilliant, and his mind is always a few steps ahead, and so John watches his face as he quickly works through it and then it's shock, and confusion, and maybe a little bit of pain. John has been here for almost a year now, no matter how long he was in Europe. John has been a couple of days ride away, and John had not come to them. And John has never sent a letter. He knows Alexander will give him the initial benefit of the doubt, but it still remains, he has been close for long enough and there will not be enough of an excuse for that.  
  
"No..." It's a whisper, but it sounds more like a plea and a pang of guilt strikes John sharply. "How? I don't...I don't understand..."  
  
"Mr. Hamilton, please let me explain."

"Those drawings Edward showed me. Your initials were different but the strokes on the page, the script felt _so familiar_ but I couldn't..." He shakes his head before he repeats himself. "I don't _understand_."

"Perhaps we can have this discussion somewhere more private."

"We are the only ones in this room at the present time." The timbre is back in Alex's voice and now he's peering at him sharply, as if a man on the hunt who has identified prey. "Were you captured?"

"Mr. Hamilton..."

"Don't."

They stare at each other for a moment, and now, it seems like there is only anger. "Alex, then."

His chest tightens as Alex's eyes get shiny at that. "You owe me an explanation."

He knows that Alexander wants to know everything, every detail and every thought, but a place that he frequents, where they can be disturbed at any time, isn't where he wants to have this conversation. Alex is narrowly looking at him, expectant and full of preconceived judgement. John sighs.  
  
"I was injured. It took me weeks to recover, by the grace of God, and some stranger. He gave me money." He shrugs, looking away. "I was not captured."  
  
"So you just ran away."  
  
The rebuke is harsh and accusatory, and John feels himself bristle in defense; Alex has always been intense and tenacious, and when they had disagreed, it always brought this out in him, a fire that would spark inside his belly.    
  
"I didn't run away," He snapped, a harsh whisper in the event anyone was close. "There was nothing here for me to run away from. I needed..." He sighs, shaking his head. "I needed a change."  
  
By the time he looks back up at Alex, he realizes he's said the wrong thing. Alex's face is flayed, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly, skin paler than before, as if he's been struck. It's only for the briefest of moments, though, because he quickly shutters the look, closes his mouth and makes some kind of derisive noise.  
  
"Nothing..." He scoffs, shaking his head. He makes a face like he doesn't even know what to say, his brows furrowing while he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He's silent for another moment or two, and then he straightens up in his seat, sitting tall, and his expression is placid, unreadable.  
  
"A change. Well, Mr. Ball,"  
  
John feels himself flinch.  
  
"Although you were not present, I took the opportunity to explore the mill myself and, based on my readings of what is and is not standard practice, found it to be satisfactory and quite the appropriate candidate for our program, for a locale such as Plainfield. If you could, please draft a detailed list of 4 or 5 improvements that you believe would be most beneficial for production, and have it delivered to the Office of the Secretary of the Treasury; I will review it and approve or disapprove of said improvements, and grant assistance based on those decisions."

There's a part of John that doesn't want to let Alex do this. He wants to convince to speak more in private, to clarify what has happened, but then there's another part that just wants this uncomfortable interaction to be over. And because Alex seems to be done listening, he yields as well. "I will have it to you within the next few weeks, if that will be agreeable. I know you and your family will be taking a holiday soon."

Alex makes a dismissive gesture. "We will not be going to Albany as is our usual routine, but to our home in New York City. I'm accustomed to working during these periods of recess, so I will be able to respond regardless of the going's on.  
  
Alex rose suddenly, without much more indication that the conversation was over, leaving a half full mug of ale on the table, and so John did as well. Alex looks at him sideways.  
  
"I have so much work to do. I must head back to the Capital first thing in the morning. I apologize for having to leave back for town so suddenly."

He pulls on his gloves and John steps aside, moving to walk him out of the tavern. He sees a few people glance their way, their expressions clearly uncomfortable and he wonders how transparent their discord must be. When they exit, they stand off to the side as Alex hands a boy a coin and asks him to retrieve his horse from the small stables in between the tavern and the mill where he's housed his horse for the afternoon.

"Did you know," He pulls at the sleeves of his waistcoat with sharp movements, not bothering to look at John while they wait. "That the former President of Congress, Henry Laurens, died this past December? Left behind a 16 year old granddaughter who is now being looked after her aunt? Poor thing is..."  
  
"That's enough, Alexander." He grinds it out between grit teeth, his posture suddenly stiff in the face of what he feels is an unseemly attack. He glares at Alex, who has still not looked at him, and he feels his chest get heavy. He hadn't heard about his father's death, actually, and while he's thought about his father from time to time, has almost put his pen to the page a time or two to reach out, he thought that he'd accepted never speaking to him again a long time ago. The shock he feels now, the sudden pang of regret and pain, is unexpected. _How cruel of him_ , he can't help but think, _to taunt me in this way._  
  
"You abandoned everyone who ever cared for you." Alexander whispers bitterly, his face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. He turns away from John, and puts on a forced smile as the boy nears them. Without another word, he takes the reins from the child with a pat on his shoulder and pulls himself into the saddle, adjusting his posture as he settles in.  
  
John is watching him as he mounts the horse and nods back when Alex gives him a cursory head bob of acknowledgement, and then watches him ride away in the direction of town. He doesn't understand why he feels a certain way all of a sudden. He's gotten what he wanted, which is to be left anonymous, to the new life he's carved out for himself. In this moment, as he watches the horse and rider become smaller and smaller, he feels sure he will never be bothered by his past again.  
  
So why does it feel so empty?


	5. Chapter 5

For as much he thinks he's going to wallow after the disastrous reunion with his old companion, life has other ideas. Rivaling Alexander's penchant for drafting correspondence, he sends off a detailed description of some of the improvements he wishes to make to their property, tallying some 6 or 7 pages long-he knows, that in order for Alexander to take it seriously, especially in the wake of their discussion, he will need to detail everything as minutely as possible. Luckily, he knows how that mind works, and he tailors the information accordingly.  
  
He expects he will receive a response quickly, but none comes. While he intends to keep the arrangement in his thoughts, a fever comes to Massachusetts that begins to distract the people in and around town, and Sam is the only one of their household to come down with it. They will realize later that having only one catch the fever, one that ends up being relatively mild compared to the rest of the northeast, will actually be fortunate.  
  
The boy is bedridden almost immediately, the first sign of the illness only showing itself when he collapses as they work with the millstones in the basement of the mill. John and Jasper work together to carry him up and out of the building and get him to their cottage, and John waste's no time settling the boy in his bed, quickly tasking Jasper to gather warm water and rags. He strips the boy of his sodden work clothes and replaces it with a simple linen shift. At this point, Sam is still somewhat lucid, but very tired, and tries to help as much as he can. His skin is clammy and warm, and John can see that his pupils are a little larger than what he would expect them to be. He brushes the young man's hair from his head, and as Jasper brings him what he has asked for, tells him to run and get Edward.  
  
He tells Edward to have Thomas fix some bone broth for the boy and bring it to the cottage when he is first able to, with bread if he can manage it. He elevates him just a little, just so the fluid will drain from his nasal passages without suffocating him.  
  
John feels them watching him as he works, and when Edward makes a little bit of noise about fetching the doctor from the main part of town, he shakes his head.  
  
"Just...give me some time with him, alright? They will want to bleed him, but I have heard differing opinions on the effectiveness of the practice."  
  
The men around them exchange uncertain looks but do as he says. The next week or so is touch and go, and they follows John's advice on a couple of unconventional courses of treatment that they have never heard of, but it seems to work. Toward the middle of June, as they hear of more people falling ill and the heat outside rises, Sam's fever breaks and while he is skinny and pasty and weak, he's also alive.  
  
John has spent much of the past couple of weeks mostly tending to the young man's bedside, but once he is able to get him to eat something substantial and keep it down, he pats the boy gently on the shoulder and gives him a smile and tells them that he has to get back to duties he's been shirking. Sam is grateful and thanks him, and only nods when John tells him to make sure to let him know if he starts to feel worse again.  
  
Edward is waiting for him when he enters the mill.  
  
"Can I speak to you for a moment, in private?"  
  
It's not foreboding, but in the almost year he's been here, Edward has never been the "in my office" sort, so John follows, a curious expression on his face. Edward closes the door behind him and motions for John to sit, then leans against his desk, a slight thing, barely anything more than the one John has in is hovel. It would be comical, if not for the concern John has for their meeting in general. Is he upset that John has not been more active in the mill work? Is he frustrated about Alexander, does he know how badly John has botched that meeting? Is he to be turned out?  
  
"Do you know how Sam came to be an apprentice here?" Edward begins, fiddling with some knick-knack on his desk. He eyes John, eyebrows raised. John shrugs in response.  
  
"I knew he was orphaned during adolescence sir," He answers; he doesn't know the details but it was unfortunately not uncommon in these times, for there to be orphans, especially given how the last couple of decades had gone. Edward nods.  
  
"Father to the war, mother to consumption a few years after that. 15, he was. Not too much other family-an aunt that asked me to put him to work to work out some of his energy. When she left and was remarried a couple of year later, I took him in. That boy is the closest thing to family I have." He speaks evenly, but doesn't look away from John. Edward isn't sentimental, isn't even now, but he does care, in his own way, he's made that obvious enough in the months since John has been here. John thinks of the winter, when he didn't really have a choice when the offer of a warm meal and hearth was made. He nods to express his understanding.  
  
"You've kept to yourself until recently, don't think we've not noticed. Seems like you've been becoming more a part of the company, but appears that you've retained a sense of reticence." He raises a hand softly when John opens his mouth to speak, to defend himself against what feels like an accusation. "It doesn't really matter to me much, as long as you're doing the work I'm paying you for but it appears to me that your skills extend past that of the knowledge of industry."  
  
He feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle and his stomach contracts with sudden nerves. "Sir, I'm not sure why any of this is of any import..."  
  
Edward waves it off. "I wanted you to know, Jacky, that I don't know who you really are, or where you come from." Edward's tone is heavy and tired, and he rubs at his brow with a sigh. "You've obviously got some book learning that extends past what is customary. But I don't care about any of that. You helped us keep him alive, and for that, I wanted to thank you. And I want you to know that you're a member of this crew and you've no need for concern from me, or anyone else here."  
  
He flushes at the unexpected words, bowing his head low and away. "Sir, to be true, it was nothing but what I've learned abroad." And he's not lying when he says it, because Edward doesn't know that he means it was from when he was in college.  
  
"Either way. A man's got a right to his secrets. I just want to make sure you know that if you need anything, you have friends here that can help. Understood, sir?"  
  
John can feel himself flush under the miller's gaze, surprisingly touched by the words. "Understood. Sir." He clears his throat. "I've been remiss in my duties as of late, with helping out with Sam. May I to be dismissed now?"  
  
Edward stifles a quirk of his lips. "This isn't the Army, Ball. You don't have to ask for permission."

* * *

June slides into July, and the heat becomes even more intense. The river and creek run high from the heavy snowfall from the winter, and the mill is producing more flour and cornmeal than they have before.  
  
It's also been over 6 weeks since John sent his letter to the Secretary's office, and there's still been no word back. Never one to hold back in the face of opportunity, he assumes Alexander has changed his mind about the assistance. He supposes he may deserve that.  
  
The fourth of July brings with it informal celebrations that lead into the day around town, with people shooting off guns and homemade fireworks, and organizing outdoor parties where various types of meat will be cooked over an open fire, and everyone will bring their own offerings like pies, cakes or different kinds of bread things.  
  
It surprises John at how much he finds himself looking forward to it. The fourth had begun to be celebrated immediately after the Declaration of Independence was issued, but there had been something different about it once the war was actually won. He was only present for the first year after the war had ended and had been so involved in continuing skirmishes, he had hardly got to enjoy the spoils of his work.  
  
He spends the day on the fringe of the celebrations that take place closer to the main part of town. It's a large open field that the crowd rounds out, with a band and people dancing, and serving food, and catching up with neighbors. This isn't like balls he had grown up accustomed to attending, although the dances are familiar. It's more relaxed than that, and everyone seems to know who the other is. As the afternoon draws to a close and dusk nears, the few who have visited the gathering head back to the mill's property and prepare to watch the remaining festivities at a distance while enjoying a night out by the fire outside. He is surprised, once they settle in, to find Jasper absent from their group.  
  
Sam settles in one side of him, Thomas on the other, and they begin pass a flask around the circle as Edward begins to built a fire. The younger man had been able to leave his sickbed a week or so before, but he was still looking pale, and gaunt, and tired. The smile he gives John, though, is so bright and excited, and it warms John from within. He throws an arm over the younger man's shoulder, pulling him close in for a half hug and pats him on the shoulder.  
  
"You've been looking better all day, back among the living! How are you feeling? You've not taxed yourself too much with the excitement, have you?"  
  
"I'm tired," The boy replies, with a shrug. "Edward's being real good to me though, giving me more time to get better. I told him I'd do some of the books but he forbade it. I'm getting anxious just sitting in bed, to tell you the truth."  
  
"Enjoy it while you can." He replies with a grin, a half coughed out laugh. "Say, where's Jasper? I've not seen much of him all day. Not a fan of the festivities?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "Jasp has never much cared for fireworks. I don't know why, he just gets this weird look about him and slinks off. Doesn't even bother trying to pretend anymore. Probably in his room, reading or in bed."  
  
John looks off in the direction of that extra cottage, blinking as the sun setting behind it shines brightly in his face. He shrugs off a nagging thought that invades his mind and returns to just listening to the conversation that has sprung up between the three other men with him. Edward has been successful with his work, and smoke begins to thread up into the air, emitting sparks from the angled firewood.  
  
He rises a little while later when it's grown much darker, using the excuse of his need for relief, and he stumbles off, a soft buzz in his ears and he does his business. Once that is finished, though, he doesn't return to the fireside, but instead, heads toward the cottage, looking back to make sure his departure is not much noted. He can hear Sam and Thomas arguing once more, as they often do, and he smiles to himself as he thinks of how Edward was dozing. He won't be terribly missed.  
  
The sitting room of the cabin is empty so he makes his way to the only closed door in the home and finds it unlatched. He pushes the door open softly, and slides in; he immediately finds his friend, twisted up in blankets, curled into a ball, facing away from the door. His arms are bent up near his head, pressing in from both sides. Outside, he hears the whistle of a popper outside the thin windows and he sees the man flinch, and his earlier thoughts are confirmed. Such displays have never bothered him any, but he doesn't find it surprising that others may be so affected.  
  
He shuffles further into the room, gently closing the door behind him. There's a side table with a book and a fresh candle burning that throws a bit of light but he grabs another off the vanity and lights it from the parent candle. From there he shimmys himself onto the ground next to the nightstand, legs bent up and arms curled around his knees as he stares into the flame as the festivities begin in earnest.  
  
Jasper is silent for a few minutes, and he's content to stay there until they end just that way. He's pretty sure Jasper knows he's there, that he could hear him when he slipped into the room  
  
"How did you know I would be here?"  
  
Jasper's voice is muffled by the blankets and pillows, and John has to grin just a little bit at how buried the man is. "Sam told me."  
  
"It's foolish, I know. Hiding in my bed like a child..."  
  
"It's not foolish," John reassures softly, and cranes his head to look up at him. "It may not have the same affect on me, but I certainly understand it." He pauses for a moment. "Do you know, I have not shot a gun since the war?"  
  
Jasper doesn't say anything, but he unwinds from the blanket and flips so he's facing John, moving the pillow to the end of the bed to rest on it. He watches him, and when he doesn't say anything, John continues.  
  
"I'm not against it, I've just not had a good enough reason to hold one again. In fact, during the war, I took such...gratification in it." He looks down at his hands, folded together and rubs his thumbs. "I was shot, a few times, but very gravely injured before I departed for Europe. All of the men I was fighting with..." He trails off. "War is hell, Jasper. No one is going to judge you for taking refuge from it's echoes. Certainly not myself."  
  
The silence stretches out. John's not sure what drove him in here, to be true. He's grown more fond of all the men he's gotten to know, but he feels a strange kinship with Jasper after their talk in the winter, and he knows how battle can stay with you. If he can offer a modicum of solace to a friend when he knows how he feels, he wants to do that.  
  
"My grandparents were loyalists," Jasper begins suddenly, lying on his belly so his chin rested on the pillow. "My father was more neutral, i think he just wanted to resume peace as soon as possible. I think, if not for my grandfather, he'd have been a patriot. Maybe even an abolitionist. Instead, my family owned a handful of slaves to help around the house that my grandfather gifted them for their wedding; he never made enough to purchase more, although I don't doubt he would have." He looks at John, thoughtful. "You've never said where you're from in the South; did your family own slaves?"  
  
John thinks of how he wants to answer and tips his head from side to side, measuring his words. "We did. Quite a few, in fact. My father..." His voice catches, and Alexander's words from May cut into his mind once more. He clears his throat. "He was comfortable with bondage of men. I am...not so much."  
  
Jasper hums, and shifts to look at his friend. "My mother didn't care much either way. In fact, she stopped caring about anything too much after my younger brother passed."  
  
John feels a pang of empathy for the man, thinks of how Jemmy wallowed for a day or so in delirium before the head trauma finally took him. "I'm sorry for your loss."  
  
Jasper shrugs. "It was a long time ago. What about you? Any family? Any friends, from before the war?"  
  
"No," He says softly. "No, my family is...mostly passed on, in recent years."  
  
"I'm sorry then, too." Jasper replies softly. "I feel somewhat guilty sometimes. My parents have always been fairly sickly, at least in the past few years, and my elder sister has taken to their care. Sometimes I feel bad for leaving them behind, but after the war, going back down there after everything that had happened...it's much like how you needed your own change, I suppose."  
  
"Do you still correspond?"  
  
"She sends me letter's occasionally. She married well and her husband passed a few years ago, so she wants for very little. Still...." He trails off. "Maybe everyone is running away from something."  
  
John can feel the man's eyes on him, as if he's looking for some kind of reaction, but he doesn't give one. He thinks back to the conversation with Edward and he wonders if they've discussed him amongst themselves. It's only natural, he supposes, to want to know about someone you're working in such close proximity with and most can tell when you're not being completely truthful. Luckily, so far, it hasn't seemed to matter to them, for which he's grateful. He hopes he's proven he's trustworthy.  
  
The fireworks had stopped by the time Jasper had come out from his cocoon of blankets but they continue to make conversation for awhile, exchanging the flask back and forth, until John feels his lids begin to grow heavy and he rises from his place on the floor, wincing at the crack in his knees.  
  
"It's late. I need to be getting to my own bed, it's been a long day. Are you alright now?"  
  
Jasper nods. "Thank you. For visiting." He pauses. "It's been a long time since I've known someone who understands."  
  
"It's nothing. I needed a respite from Thomas and Sam's bickering anyway."  
  
That draws a chuckle from Jasper and he waves his hand. "Take the candle. Make sure you get back without falling into the creek." Another pause. "Thank you again Jack."  
  
John nods back in the dark, but doesn't say anything else and just slips away. He can see the campfire still lit in the distance, and can see at least two figures still outlined by it's light; he wonders, with a smile, if they've just fallen asleep there. It was a good day, he thinks as he trudges over the foliage, careful in the dark. He thinks back on the day, and finds he can't recall anytime in recent memory that he has been able to enjoy himself so easily. That he has felt like he may belong.  
  
It's nice, he decides, to feel like you have friends again.

* * *

The knock at the door of his shanty comes on a late afternoon in September, as the summer sun is beginning to dip behind the trees and he can hear the creek a little ways up rippling in it's path. He anticipates the guest to be Jasper or Edward, with some quick task to wrap up the day or perhaps a request for a drink or to take their evening supper, but when he opens the door, he finds a face he had expected he would never see again.  
  
John feels assured that Alexander Hamilton has never looked bashful in his life. He has seen the man in many a compromising position, foolishly headstrong in arguments over drinks or losing at cards among the other aides when practically fall down drunk but he always managed a mischievous air during those times, a playful smile on his face. Now, the Alexander before him is flushed and his eyes are wide, and he fiddles with the hat he holds in front of him.  
  
John takes a few steps back in surprise, and is suddenly aware that his mouth is hanging open. To come directly to his little home is surprising, especially without any sort of warning. He would've expected a letter or at least, for Alexander to go to the main house and have himself announced.  
  
Unless. He wanted to be more discreet than that.  
  
John feels his face twist in confusion, and he folds his hands together behind his back, shifting to stand taller. "Alexander. What an...unexpected, surprise."  
  
Alex manages a half laugh, half snort and he rolls his eyes and suddenly seems to relax; had he expected a door slammed in his face? "Jesus, John, you sound a little like Burr there." He bites his lip, adjusts his posture. "I hope I'm not disturbing your evening. I know my response has been greatly delayed, and so I wanted to deliver it to Edward in person with my apologies, which I have accomplished. My Eliza and I were taken down by the Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia and with the quarantine, have just recently been able to travel."  
  
John's eyes widen, concern replacing anything else he was feeling at the sight of his former comrade. "My God, Alexander, is she..."  
  
Alex holds up a hand. "We have both fully recovered and are no worse for the wear, thanks to God and my good friend Ned. Do you remember me speaking of Ned Stevens, during the war? We were fortunate enough to have him in the city at the time."  
  
John did recall the man's name, a vague mention here or there that he had noted was tied to an affectionate smile that would find it's way to his friends face. He had understood without it being said that the two had known each other before Alex had ever arrived in the city, but given his aversion to speaking too much about his past, John had always avoided pressing further. He steps aside, a gesture to invite the man into his home, but Alexander shakes his head.

"I only wanted to stop by and speak with you. My family and I have taken to the Schuyler property in Albany for the past few weeks and I knew I would be remiss if I didn't stop by to speak with you face to face." He pressed his lips together as if in consideration, and then plowed forward.  
  
"Albany is close, did you know that? Not even a full days ride, and..." He shakes his head, waving a hand. "Never mind, I will explain later. I came because, I have rented out a small cottage in town for the the next few days and I wanted to ask if you would like to come for a visit and have supper with me." His expression softens as he looks away. "I...regret, the things I said and how I acted back in May. I would like the opportunity to..." John could see his eyes darting back and forth in his head, trying to find the words, but oh he knows Alexander, and if there's anything he has in spades, it's words and so he knows, that there is just much there and he's trying to decide how much to give out.  
  
"I would like to," He begins again, looking back up at John. "To try to understand. Why. How." John can see the bump in his throat bob as he swallows hard; his eyes never leave John's. "I was very sick there for a few days and I realized that I would prefer not to squander this chance, that I did not want to meet the maker having shunned you in such a way." His expression transforms to one of unbearable tenderness, and he drops his gaze to his hands, still wearing at his hat. "I have missed you, John. And I just want to discuss it further, if you have the opportunity and the time."

Alexander's words stun him and he finds that he is now the one who is speechless. It's the closest thing he'll get to an apology, he thinks, but the request for a discussion, this olive branch, is something he would have never anticipated. There's no anger or vitriol in him now, just a strange sense of desperation and John is suddenly struck with the realization that Alexander believes he will be turned away.

John softens immediately and he rests a hand on his old friends shoulder in an effort to put him at ease. He feels Alex tense, and is suddenly struck at the realization that it is the first time they have touched since the morning he left Yorktown. He pulls it back, meeting Alexander's gaze and there's something there he hasn't felt in a very long time. He flexes his hand where it rests at his side, noting the tingle in is palm and immediate ignores it, composing himself as he smiles softly.

"Of course. Of course, I will take supper with you. Give me the number of the house. Will tomorrow evening suffice?"  
  
Alexander beams and nods, and relays the location of the rental before offering a half bow and retreating back towards the main house. John watches him go, and doesn't understand how Alex could think he would've ever rebuffed him.

When so confronted in person with his requests, John has never been able to deny Alexander Hamilton of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the length of this got away from me, but I wasn't sure if there was a good place to cut it so here's 4k words. Hope it's alright; kind of my least favorite type of stuff to write (the boring, connective, background, stuff) but i'm really looking forward to the next chapter, which i've written probably about half of, but is basically all just the two of them. take that for what you will.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my enduring thank you's to [@talriconosco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talriconosco/pseuds/talriconosco) for her beta help; i've never used one before but it was IMMEASURABLY valuable, and if the quality seems better than previous chapters, she's to thank.

It's a little after four in the afternoon when John rides into town. It's barely a mile from the mill, and he would usually walk but he's taken the horse so the trip will be quicker.  He dismounts, takes the reins in hand and ties the mare to a post in front of the home. It's a small cottage, indistinct; there are flowers in pots that hang from the windows, and curtains that hang just inside. The shades are drawn.

He knocks.

He can hear shuffling from inside, the distinct sound of a book closing, and footsteps; and then the door opens and Alexander appears. He wears breeches, a loose linen undershirt, and an easy smile.

"I was curious as to when you would arrive. Please. Come in," Alexander says.

John follows, setting down the small satchel he carries with money and other things he’d thought he might need for the afternoon. Alexander closes the front door, and he turns---and they stand, awkwardly apart from one another, fiddling with their hands and their clothes, the silence unnerving.

"So. How has your Saturday been?" John asks, wanting the moment to end. Alexander brightens a bit and smiles wider.

“I've been working on a pamphlet. Would you like to read it?” Alexander doesn't wait for an answer, moving toward a small desk that stands flush against the wall in the sitting room, and begins to shuffle through papers. John takes the opportunity to survey the place; it’s like it appeared from the outside, small but not stifling. He can see a dim hallway, lit only by what must be a window at its far end. They stand now in the kitchen, he presumes; a hearth sits the opposite side and if he is correct, there is some kind of stew or soup brewing in the pot that hangs there. He smiles softly.

Alexander, now having found whatever it was he needed, moves back toward John and gestures for him to sit at the small table. John obliges, and Alexander proceeds to drop a small stack of papers in front of him with a grin. John thumbs through it to the end and raises an eyebrow.

"...Pacificus?"

Alexander’s brows rise with his shoulders, and the soft grin that graces his features is mischievous, an indication of an argument well deliberated. “The Secretary of State is displeased with the French Neutrality Proclamation issued by the President and sent his dogs after me. One of which is...formidable. They do not believe it the responsibility of the executive arm to decide such a matter, and I intend to convince the public otherwise.”

The mention of the French conflict causes John to wince, but he tries to shield it as best he can. He has no idea of the fate of Lafayette, has not heard by word of mouth how he fares---he can only hope that that means good news. He picks up the papers and stacks them together before lying them back down on the table.  

"If you have the opportunity, I would love your thoughts on it,” Alexander says, looking at him expectantly.

"I'm afraid I may be woefully under-prepared to give a fully informed opinion. I'm not one for politics anymore."

"You never were," Alexander comments, walking over to a cabinet and drawing out a couple of bowls,small plates, and a board on which he placed a round loaf of bread, some cheese and what looks to be pats of butter. "Always more interested in the gun and the sabre."

It's a tad accusatory. John prickles. "If I remember correctly, you were often right there with me."

Alexander barks a laugh, and brings the board over to the table where John had sat down, sliding it in the middle. He sits down in the chair adjacent to John, leaning back. "I suppose I was. Here," He gestures to the bread. "I confess, I have not planned anything too elaborate. I did not want to have hired help milling about when we were discussing things. And so, in addition to the stew---very simple, mind you, not much to it---I procured some bread, and some cheese, and some ham, if that would be to your liking. If not, we could always go somewhere else in town and then return after." He grins then, a glint in his eye. "I did stock up on plenty of wine."

The quick concession surprises John, and he watches Alexander setting the table. Satisfied at how Alexander doesn’t press on, he relaxes with a soft chuckle. "Then it will feel much like old times."

Silence settles between them, and John feels himself grow warm, warmer than anything affected by the the waning afternoon sun. Alex smiles back.

"That was my hope."

Suddenly uncomfortable, John rises, turning toward the hearth and going to inspect what cooks there. The stew is as Alexander had said, very simple--meat, carrots, potatoes, and a simple seasoning. John’s never been much of a cook, but he recognizes it as something they'd often prepare in the camps. "It looks almost done, he says.

"Probably," Alexander responds casually. "I assumed we could begin to catch up over a glass of watered wine and some of the bread and cheese. Have you eaten recently?"

John hadn't; in the morning, he’d just had some leftover bread before doing a bit of work out on the water. He had relayed his plans to visit with Alexander to Edward, explaining that he’d identified some options for their work and their meeting would involve discussing how best to achieve those goals with the money that had been delivered to them. "I knew that we had plans, so not this afternoon." He walks back to the table, sitting back down and reaching for the pallet.

"The bread is quite good. I had it the last time I visited, from the baker just on the corner, and his wife informed me it is an old family recipe."

"Ah yes, I'm acquainted with them. You know, they buy their flour from our mill."

Alexander makes a soft noise of satisfaction before ripping off his own piece and slathering it in a bit of butter, popping it in his mouth. He looks at John, as if sizing him up, and settles further into the seat. "You have done quite well for yourself, then, with the success of your new enterprise."

In some ways, it would be easy for John to have been affronted by the comment, for Alexander had a way with backhanded compliments during tense situations, but look of admiration he fixes John with indicates this was not one of those times. John accepts the compliment for what it is and nods, smiles. He is proud of his work, strangely enough. It's not where he'd thought his life would take him---he had preferred medicine, but was goaded into law by his father before the war, though he'd never really considered much past how the war would end. But the mill work was secure, and satisfying, and as he chews on the bread, he finds an odd feeling of pride in understanding how his work helped to provide for the people in their town.

"It is good work," he replies, simple and to the point.

The conversation goes from there.

Alexander begins to talk about his work after the war, how he achieved his law degree, the details of the Constitutional Convention, how General Washington ended up becoming the President and how odious he found certain other members of the government.

While both had grown older--and perhaps wise--it seems that Alexander's elevated status and his position in Washington's service has done nothing but embolden his arrogance. While a part of John wants to roll his eyes at it, he also finds it somewhat endearing.

John listens. He doesn't offer much. Perhaps it's the habit he's developed from his time away, but they mostly just reminisce a bit. They dip into the stew and they comment on the quality of it, and the cheese, and the wine, and once they've finished, and they've run out of mundane things to say, Alexander stands to collect the plates and pot and places them in a steel bucket near the door to wash up for later.

Alexander had never been in the business of skirting around a topic--he’d always insisted on facing things head on.John recognizes it instantly, even after their time apart. It is as if the very air in the room changes as Hamilton collects the plates from the table. And so John rises, pours them both a glass of port, and walks over toward the two armchairs by the hearth. The fire that had cooked their dinner is dimming, so he tosses a few pieces of wood on it for it to grow; while the heat of the day had been notable, with it nearing the fall, it does not keep as much when the sun retires as it had in the apex of summer. John settles into one of the chairs, sets the glasses on a table between them, and simply waits.

Alexander joins him shortly and falls into the opposite chair with a soft sigh. He stares at the fire for a moment and lazily grabs at his glass, taking a sip before letting it rest upon his knee. He never takes his eyes from the flame.

"So," Alexander begins softly. "I have told you what I have been up to all these years. I think it is only fair that you return the favor."

John fiddles with his glass. "There's not much to tell. I was injured. I went to London, then spent some time in France. When the uprisings occurred, it became evident that Europe was no longer a refuge, so I boarded the first ship I could find. It brought me to Boston and I found my way to Plainfield. It is really not so exciting."

He can see Alexander roll his eyes---he knows Alexander must think it an evasive response---but it's the truth. He had lived meagerly, even more bare bones than he does now, and he’d had fewer acquaintances. He remembers the early days, how jumpy he’d been, how suspect, and how it was only when he could see the looks of disgust in strangers’ eyes as they assumed him a poor beggar that he had relaxed and shed the skin of his past.

He too takes a sip of the wine. It has a bite to it, a sharp sweetness. He grimaces at the taste, but not necessarily in displeasure. "How are you feeling, Alexander? Have you recovered, from your illness?"

At that, the man sits up and nods, crossing his legs with a sigh. "All is well, again thanks to dear Ned. By God’s grace he was present; I shudder to think of our outcome had Benjamin Rush had anything to say about it." He says the doctor’s name like a curse, and John has to cough back a laugh. At the noise, Alex glances over at him and relaxes, his expression becoming unreadable and soft. "I was feverish for weeks. Myself first, then my Eliza, for she never left my side throughout the whole of it. The children were sent to Albany, which is how we came to be there as well, but we were quarantined for some time. Scared, they were, the whole state. Though it was understandable." Alexander sips once more, smacking his lips at the taste. "You know..."

He trails off, and then lowers his eyes. John shifts to look at him, turns his whole body and leans before he speaks. He can already feel the wine, from dinner and now, and how it makes his head feel soft and fuzzy. He can tell from the way Alexander has loosened in his seat that he is experiencing a similar effect. "If you don't want to discuss it, I would understand. It was just that you mentioned it. At my home, yesterday. I just wanted to ensure..."

"We're both much better. But for awhile there..." Alexander’s smile is tight now. "You know how I've always been prone to sickness, how bitter I've been over it. In the throes of it," He casts a sideways glance at John. "Ned says I asked for you. Over and over."

John blanches at that, the sensation of panic squirreling to life within him. "Alexander..."

But Alexander knows the concern before he can voice it and scoffs, waving a hand, a gesture John had forgotten he so favored. "Oh, calm yourself. I wouldn't betray such a thing. Besides, in that dire of state, no one would have believed it." His smile settles down, tweaking at the corners. "But he did mention it, when I came back to myself. Ned always knew me so well and...he looked so, heart-sore, when he mentioned it. And I felt it. And I knew." Alexander blinks, looking back at the fire. For a moment, his eyes glisten, but with another bat of the lids, the effect is gone. "I had to see you again and apologize."

"Alexander..." John starts, but Alexander shakes his head hard and stands, striding to the mantle, leaning on it with his forearm,and twisting his wrist so the drink swirls in his glass. He takes another sip, deeper this time.

"I would like to understand." Alexander repeats his request from the day before, and he turns, and takes the glass with both hands. "I was...taken off guard, in May, and I would like to understand...what drove you to come to the decision to leave without a word."

He’s not sure what to say. His initial instinct is to evade and shrug it off as unimportant, but Alexander’s gaze is beseeching. The man has come to him, apologetic and vulnerable, and he just wants an answer, and John finally sighs, because after all this time, he decides that Alexander deserves at least that.

"I honestly..." John shakes his head. "I just felt very lost, Alex. I felt...adrift. I wasn't sure..." He swallows. "I didn't know where I'd belong, after it was done. I know you wanted me in the Capitol, in _Congress_ , but..." He closes his eyes against it, can imagine Martha in his mind, thinks of how they would have lived on his father's property, either far away from New York, or maybe not.He thinks of the courtroom, or a busy hall, filled with men who argued, and lied, and made deals that betrayed themselves, and his gut churns. "I did not know if I could live that life."

Alexander watches him closely, weighing the words; there's a hint of initial hurt on Alexander’s face, but as John watches, he pushes it away.John can see the lawyer in him now, more clearly and classically trained than before, preparing to lay out an argument like a map and direct his audience along the way until they came to a variety of possible, logical conclusions. John relaxes back for the performance, watching as Alex starts to slowly pace in front of the fire, and he thinks, _Ah, yes. This is the boy I remember._

"You asked me to go somewhere privately to discuss it, clearly uncomfortable with the setting we were in, and I refused," His friend begins evenly, rolling a free hand in a gesture that indicated he was only getting started. "And then when you began to explain, I was short tempered and angry."

"You had something of a right to be..."

Alexander holds up a hand to stop him. "I'm not finished. While I found your reason unsatisfactory, I did not let you elaborate. I...feel as if maybe my sensibilities were offended and..." John can see him swallow a few times. "I was hurt, John. And because of that, I was terse, I was discourteous." Alexander finally looks straight at him and John's surprised to see genuine remorse there. "I did not give you the opportunity to thoroughly explain your actions. If you felt in such a way that a departure was the only option, when...I was sure that I had..." He shakes his head and stops, spreading his arms, as if opening himself up to a blow. "I would like to understand."

John sits for a few moments in silence, his own gaze roving over the flames and then moving up to meet Alexander's. He shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and he swallows a few times. Finally, he rises himself, rounds behind the chair, sets his glass on the small table between the two of them and grips at the upholstery. He sighs and looks back at the fire.

"I was determined. I wanted my mission to be successful." He pauses, barks out a harsh laugh. "I wanted it to be _more_ than successful, I wanted it to be explosive. I wanted to prove, that they were just as good as we had been. That they were better. That they deserved it." He looks up at Alexander, and he wonders if the ache that rises within him is written on his face; he can see something like sorrow cresting on Alexander’s. "I baited them with freedom, Alexander. For themselves, for their families, in exchange for service. And they died. All of them. They all died."

"That wasn't your fault, John. It was a war."

"It _was_ my fault." He spits it, and his stomach twists and contracts into knots, and the shame he's ignored for so long rises in the space it makes. "The war was over. And I knew better." He shakes his head. "I knew better. It was an open field, in the daylight, with no trees or other growth to shield our charge." He looks up at Alexander now, and he's trying to put as much meaning as he can into his next words. "I knew."

Hamilton doesn't break his gaze, but John can see his jaw twitch as it clenches. Alexander’s chin rises a bit, and John hears him breathe in deeply. John looks back down at the chair. "I woke up a few weeks later. I have...a vague recollection of my recovery. By the time I was well enough to travel, it had been months. I did go home, you know. And there was a marker. There was a body." He looks up again. Suddenly, he's just tired, and he can feel his shoulders shift into a slump. John shakes his head. "I thought about going up to the house. To writing to my family in Europe. To you. And I imagined what that might be like and I..."

"You fled, instead." Alex interjects sharply, and for a moment, John's afraid they're going to have a repeat performance of the tavern. But Alexander doesn't move.

"I thought about...what it might be like. With my father. And Martha, and Frances. With our new country." He smiles tenderly, and he feels content as Hamilton still doesn't tear his gaze away. "With you."

"And you fled." Alex whispers, but it's not sharp anymore. It's almost sad, even, and resigned, because as much as Alexander wants to pretend they could've carried on just fine, they both know how they'd felt for one another. They both had known that continuing as they'd been was impossible; they both knew how terrible it would be to pretend it had never happened.

The air has changed, much like before, but now it's tense in a different way, like they're tethered together but held apart by a brace. Neither takes a step.

"I could only imagine the farce that it would be. I thought of everything I would represent. The people I would serve, in the South, what they would demand of me, what I would have lost because I failed. Everything I was would be a lie." He wants to make Alex understand, he needs him to understand. If Alex can empathize with it, with everything, then maybe this will be okay. "I thought about those men." John’s hands clench on the back of the chair,digging into the fabric. "I could not suffer such an affront upon my family, or friends, or you. Living a lie that affected me alone is one thing. But to be in your life pretending to not feel the way I did, to be in Martha and Frances’s lives and make them a charade---it would've been a mockery, and I could not do any of you the disservice."

"The disservice." Alexander’s laugh is hollow. He cuts a straight line to the chair John stands behind, pulling himself onto it and resting on his knees there. He looks up at John, and it's all John can do to hold the gaze, because Alex is hurt. He can see it. "So the greater service was to allow us to believe you had died? To remove yourself completely? You truly...?" He grasps at John's hand where it is wearing at the chair, not allowing it to be removed as John attempts to pull away, and instead, presses it against his chest, forcing it in a splay just under his rib-cage. "My heart has always had enough room for two in it, John. And there's a part of it that has felt empty for a long while. Do you truly believe that living alongside me, I would've pretended anything but to love you? How could you think being gone was the better alternative?"

John doesn't have an answer. And Alexander doesn't wait for one. Instead, he rises, and slowly walks around the chair so he stands at John's side, and waits for John to turn.

There was none of the eager doffing of clothes, as John had sometimes read about in provocative literature. Nor were there messy presses of lips mixed with desperate moans.

Instead, quite gently, Alexander lets his hands take their place on the trim of John's jacket and he looks up at him. Without a word, but with a cautious glance, he slowly peels off John's coat, resting it on the back of the chair he'd left vacant. John lets his arms go slack at his side, lets Alexander slide it right off so he is only in his waistcoat and undershirt, and it's like every part of his body is humming. A warm flush creeps up the back of his neck to the tips of his ears; his breath picks up just a bit.

Alexander's hands find his jawline and pulls him close.

It's like coming home. It's like getting the thing you've wanted the most your whole life when you didn't even know what it was. It's being forgiven when you don't think you deserve it, and all your doubts being washed away, even if just for these few moments. John lets himself be kissed for a moment or two, just soaks in the sensation of Alex's lips on his own, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle before his hands act of their own volition, sliding around Alex’s waist and settling bound at the base of his back, pulling their bodies just a bit closer. Alex is a little shorter than he is and when they break the kiss, he settles so his temple against John's chin. John takes the opportunity to press a kiss to his forehead. Alex pulls back, and tilts his head up to look at him. His eyes are dewy.

"You're real." Alex whispers, and his voice sounds shaky, and he rubs his thumb over John’s cheekbone, coughs out a chuckle when it slides over the stubble on the down-swipe. "You need a good shave. But you're real."

"I've grown fond of my shadow."

"You wear it well." Alex assents. He drops his hands, stepping backward out of the embrace, but the smile remains on his face to make sure John knows it's not out of anger or avoidance. "I would know you anywhere, John. In a thousand lives, I would see you and know you. And I have missed you. Do not mistake me, I love my wife without an end. But do not mistake us, either, for, my affections for you were--are---paralleled. I cannot..." He brings a hand up to John’s' shoulder and squeezes. "My dear Laurens..."

The familiar phrase, one John’s not heard uttered in years, hits him harder than he expects. He closes his eyes against it, swaying a little bit where he stands---but Alex is there now, when he hasn't been before, hands around his wrists, stilling him, grounding him, and when he opens his eyes, the other man's gaze is pleading.

“Will you stay? We can spend the day together, we can catch up more. There's an extra room I will take, and you can have the larger one."

"Alexander..." He begins. Perhaps sensing hesitation, Alexander surges forward.

"We still have so much to discuss! Your mill, and the General, and I want to tell you about my family, and I want to hear more..."

"Hamilton!" He laughs and he grabs at his arms, squeezing the meaty upper part. "I'll stay."

Alex looks a little surprised. But only a little, because then he smiles.

"All right, then. You'll stay."

 

* * *

They sleep in separate rooms. It's the wise choice, he thinks. The thought of Alexander's wife nags at the forefront of his mind, and ten years loom between them like a chasm. But even the knowledge that Alexander is there, next door---he cannot ignore it, cannot deny that it keeps him up for a few hours.

He awakens somewhat early, the sun seeping in and hitting his face so he squints and recoils, and it takes a few moments to remember where he is. He pushes himself to sit, rubbing his hand over his face to scrub the sleep from his eyes, and he slips out of the bed.

The sun is brighter in the corridor. If he has to guess, it's probably seven or eight in the morning. After he's visited the outhouse, he goes into the main room and pokes around until he finds the bundle of food that Alexander had shown him the night before.

He lights a small fire in the hearth, the coals still pricking with life from the previous evening, and builds it. He hangs the canister of coffee above on the hook, letting it brew. He removes the bread, and upon examination, pleased to see some of the spreads have not spoiled, places the lot of it on the dining table. He sits in one armchair, waiting for the coffee to finish, and thinks of the night before. His eyes find the other chair, where his coat still lies, discarded, and he flushes, unable to keep the grin from his face. He feels as if he is twenty-three once more. He had believed himself to be content and happy with the life he had chosen to live, but he realized now that this existence is a state he could not remember enough to miss.

The kettle whistles. Predictably, he hears a door open, and a shuffle of feet. A soft groan and the clack of a door follow, and a few minutes later Alexander appears, his hair an absolute mess around his head in a tangle, breeches wrinkled and undershirt riding up. When he walks into the room, he's scratching at his head, wincing against the light, probably nursing a bit of a hangover, but when he sees John, his face splits with a smile and he relaxes. John holds out a cup. Alexander takes it with a nod of thanks and slides into the armchair next to him, but not before a gentle caress ghosting at John's jawline. John feels a shiver run through him

I need to be careful, he thinks to himself; he could too easily get used to this sort of behavior, could too easily fall back into old habits, could too easily believe that nothing had changed at all.

But it had. He had to remind himself that so much had.

"Are you feeling well?" Alexander starts, his voice a bit murky with sleep. He clears his throat and takes a sip of the coffee, blowing out afterwards from the heat. He sets it down on the table and fixes John with a worried stare.

John can only smile back. "Very. Best I've slept in a long time."

Alex seems to relax. "Good, then. Because I would like to explore the area a bit. Tell me, what is there to do in Plainfield?"

As it turns out, not very much. John suggests a ride out of town a few miles, to a lake where younger folks tend to spend warm days and where families sometimes go to enjoy a day alone. It's still early when they venture out, as the rest of the town is at the morning church service that they have elected to miss. Alexander is somewhat well known, almost to a level of celebrity in the state of New York, and though it may be a bit selfish, John wants to keep this day for themselves. If it bothers the other man to miss church, he says nothing.

They stop briefly in the main square to fill their canteens before they climb back on their horses. John leads the way, opposite of the direction he'd take back to the mill. When they reach the lake, only a few other people lounge at the water’s edge. They settle a blanket Alex grabbed from one of the chests in the cottage and they sit on it next to one another, leftover food from the morning between them, and just begin to watch. There are children playing in the water on the other side, and Alex smiles fondly.

“He looks to be about my Phillip's age,” he comments with a nod towards one boy. “We've had four more, you know. One girl, three more boys.” He shakes his head. “Things have changed so much since you've been gone.”

"Tell me about Eliza."

John knows he sounds uneven, unexcited, ambivalent, and he sees the way Alexander slides his gaze over him, uncertain in the subject matter. "John..."

The one kiss they had shared wasn't necessarily an indication of anything to come, John knew, but the act itself was enough to make known to him that the sentiment that fed it was still there. Where that would lead, neither he nor Alexander could say---but it was certainly not mere friendship between them.

"She is your wife, Alexander. And you love her," John says. "And I am your friend. And if we are to be friends, I should know about your wife."

Hamilton watches him carefully, as if trying to figure out exactly what he is saying, and John continues. "I won't pretend we're still young men fighting a war, alone on the battlefield a moment away from death. Both of our lives are different now. And I want to know all about yours, if we're to...spend time together. I won't pretend."

Alexander sighs, resigned. “Do you remember I once wrote you about the qualities I desired in a wife?”

John nods. Alexander looks back out across the water at the children with a fresh smile.

“Well, she is all of those things, and then some I didn't even realize,” he continues. "I'm not a perfect man, John, I'm far from it. But if I'm due for damnation, it will be for the things that I did during the war, or for the things that I do to maintain my place in the public service, than any infidelities I may commit.”

“So, since you've already resigned yourself to such a fate, you might as well?” John asks wryly.

"Would you disagree?" Alexander asks softly. Upon reflection, John finds that he can’t; he shakes his head.

Hamilton begins to tell him of Eliza's unfailing loyalty, of her gentle hand and her tender heart, and how she has birthed him five children now, and they have only lost one. He tells John about how when Congress demanded a thorough financial plan that it was Eliza who sat at his side at night and when his hand grew tired, she'd picked up the quill herself and written as he’d dictated to her.The stories he tells, that he continues to tell, are all evidence of her love for her husband, of her devotion. John wonders what stories Eliza would have to tell of evidence of Alexander's for her.

There's something inside of John that burns whenever Alexander's expression changes to let the light in when he tells him something particular, something only Alexander knows, but he doesn’t regret asking. Of course he doesn't want to know of their intimacy. But he is curious about the woman who has captured his friend's heart and nourished it so well. He feels the jealousy, and the bite of competition, and even a sort of indignation, but for everything he has heard about the Schuyler girls, from earlier and even now, it's that they're of an agreeable sort. He wonders if he and Eliza would have been friends, if they had they met under different circumstances; if they had met at all.

"She sounds lovely," John comments when Alex finishes, and he means it.

"She is."

Hamilton changes the subject sharply then, completely diverting to ask about the men John works with. They discuss the future of the mill, what they may do with the Society for Establishing Useful Manufactures money; Alexander advises that John should consider a trip to Boston to entertain dealings with the millers there and John concedes the idea's merit.

They discuss politics, and current events, and mutual friends. John very carefully does not bring up Lafayette; he does not know what happened to his friend after their meeting in Paris. For all that he is certain Alexander is perfectly aware of the situation in France, John is almost afraid to ask.

John’s father and daughter are not brought up again either, and he's thankful for it. Conversation fills most of their afternoon sometimes interrupted by comfortable silence.Eventually, they lay back on the blanket, enjoying the serenity of the spot by the lake and the playful laughter of the children nearby.

When the afternoon grows cooler, they pack up and return to the horses. Alexander tosses John a rifle so they can hunt for their evening meal, perhaps a rabbit or two to roast over a spit, and John almost drops it. Alexander fixes him with a confused stare, and John shrugs, trembling a little, the weight familiar but unwelcome.

“It’s just...I don’t..” John shakes his head. “I haven’t fired a weapon since the war.”

The confusion on Alexander’s face seems to amplify, but then it goes slack and his eyes soften into something like pity, which makes John regret his words almost immediately. He breaks off their gaze and turns away from Hamilton. He begins to fiddle with the thing, willing his hands to stop trembling.

“If you would prefer, I can…”

“No.” John cuts Alexander’s offer sharply. “I will be fine. It’s just damned rabbits.”

They manage to kill a few small animals for dinner and head back in town to the cabin, where they get to work skinning and cleaning the beasts before setting them over the hearth and leaving them to roast.

John finds it strangely comforting how they fall back into their easy rapport of their youth. When dinner is done, they end up again sitting by the fire, but it's much less tense than the night before., Whatever uncertainty remains between them is quickly and easily forgotten, fueled by the wine and the comfort of each other’s company; soon enough, Alexander ends up in John’s lap, his hand pressed against John's chest when he kisses him.

This time, he leads John to the room where John stayed the night before. He strips off John's jacket and waistcoat, and then his own--and then they are sliding into the bed, Alexander moving flush against John’s body, his hand on his waist.  Alexander leans in and he kisses him, and that's how they stay, bound together as they fade into sleep, trading tender, slow kisses and gentle caresses.

Before their lids droop closed, John catches Alexander's gaze. It is sleepy, and slightly drunk, and lazy, but he smiles and presses one last kiss to John's lips that lasts longer than the others.

“I forgot how much I’d missed you.” John admits, and he tucks a stray hair behind Alexander’s ear, who blushes in turn, uncharacteristically bashful. He shuffles closes to John, burying his face close to his shoulder.

"How many other people get another chance?" Alexander whispers as he shuffles closer, body hot against John’s. "Please just allow us this. To be happy. Don't you want to be happy?"

Of course he did.

Who didn't want to be happy?

 

* * *

John wakes when he feels the warmth next to him begin to fade. Alexander has pulled away from him, away from where he had curled up along John's front and now lies ramrod straight on the edge of the bed, arms curled tightly near his head. John's brow furrows.

“Alexander? It's still dark outside...however long have you been awake?”

“I know. I couldn't sleep,” Alexander answers, his voice small. John can tell from the tone and his restlessness that something is wrong, and he rests a hand on Alexander’s hip.

Alex doesn't look back at him. He racks his mind as the silence extends, trying to think if he'd done something wrong. The day had been so pleasant, though, between the lake and the riding and supper. After supper, the thought came, pulling a blush to his cheeks as he remembers the kisses. He moves his hand to his thigh; Alex shifts.

“I have to leave in the morning,” Alexander says, quiet.

John frowned. He knew that. They had discussed, it earlier in the day. He'd have to be back at the mill as well; being gone for two days now, with no word to Edward or Sam or Jasper, who would be curious already.

Alex shifts; John’s hand slips off of his skin. “Do you remember the Schuylkill River incident? With the flour mills?”

Did he _remember_? How could he ever have forgotten? He didn't think he would ever banish the image of how General Washington’s hands had gripped the letter, how they had shaken, how his voice had been dry and cracked like well-worn winter skin. He could never forget how Lafayette had turned gray, how the man had dug his hands into John’s forearm until he thought he'd bleed, would never forget how he himself had vomited into a spare chamber pot.

Did he remember.

"It was one of the worst moments of my life," John acknowledges in a soft whisper. "I felt like the world was swallowing me up. But then you walked through the door, soaking wet while trying to catch your breath, but _alive_. And everything was alright."

He hopes that Alex will laugh, or flip over to face him, to plant a kiss or to nuzzle closer---but what happens is quite the opposite. Alexander slips off the bed, unfolding himself from under the sheets and walks to the window in silence, his undershirt hanging just past the curve of his rear. He crosses his arms and just..stares out into the darkness, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the panes. John lifts himself up onto his elbow, perplexed; what had he said wrong?

“That's what it was like. When I received the letter, about South Carolina.” Alex’s voice is thin and reedy. “Except you didn't walk back through any door.”

The air has stilled, and cold rolls over John as suddenly as if he'd been doused with water. He stares at Alexander, mouth hanging open, until he manages to move, pushing himself onto his feet and shuffling to the window.  John stands behind Alexander, arms bookending the other man's body, but does not dare to touch, does not dare to intrude on the space taken up by Alex's stiff, defensive frame. In front of him, Alex’s fingertips are clenching the wood of the sill. John breathes hard.

“Alexander, I…” John starts, but he's not sure what to say. To feign ignorance of the depth of Alexander's affection for him at that time would be disingenuous at best; he had already explained himself and while he stood by it, surely there was more he could say. He sees how Alex’s shoulders shake, and realizes there's something he hasn't said yet, something he hadn't let himself feel until now. Alex _deserved_ this, of all things, at least. “Alexander, I'm sorry. I am just...so sorry.”

It seems to be what was needed. Alexander turns, eyes glassy. “Swear to me. Swear on the thing you've loved the most in this life, swear you won't do it again. Please, John.”

It’s a dangerous consideration. What if he were to be found out by others, taken to task for his deception in the public eye? It makes him uneasy, but Alexanders gaze is penetrating, pleading, and he finds himself unable to deny him. He rests a hand on Alex’s chest and stares right into his eyes. “I swear. I promise Alex. However long you're gone, I'll be here, when you make it back. I'm not going anywhere.”

Alex considers him for a moment, wary, then grabs John’s hand where it rests on his chest and moves to lean against him with a sigh, closing his eyes. They stand there for a few moments in silence, John bringing his spare arm to hook around the smaller man and hold him, until Alex pulls back and looks up.

“Alright then. Now that that's settled, back to bed. We both have long days tomorrow.”

He leads John back to the bed, climbing in first and pulling John with him, curling so John has no choice but to rest with his back to him, and it is not until John feels Alex's arm relax where it's thrown over his waist, not until he feels Alex’s breath against his neck slow and even out, that he too slips off into unconsciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got super long, and i'm really sorry for it taking some time. i skipped my beta just because i wanted to get it out, so forgive me some typos.

John arrives back at the mill in the late morning. He and Alexander had taken their time getting ready in the morning, sharing a pot of coffee and breakfast, before sharing a few quick kisses and a tender embrace, and a promise that they would see the other again soon.

He boards his horse at the mill’s small stables and bypasses the main building, skirting through the brush to make his way to his little room. Once there, he shrugs off his things with a soft groan, realizing only then how much he’d missed sleeping in his own bed. He made a point to stop for some water, and though he has no hearth to heat it, he soaks a cloth and blots at his skin where he feels grimy. He finds himself spent, the days past of work and pleasure having drained him of energy and he falls into bed in his undershirt and breeches without much more of cleaning himself off.

A knock wakes him from his front door, and whoever is on the other side of the door hollers a greeting; it is Sam sent to fetch him. He greets the boy with a soft grunt and leaves his door open as he walks back over to his bed to retrieve where he let his boots rest. Sam walks inside, appearing barely restrained, and sinks down into the chair at John's small desk. John doesn't look up at him as he sits on the mattress, reaching to put his shoes.

"So?" Sam begins, and John pauses to look at him out of the corner of his eye. The younger man's brows appear raised, and there's a tell tale glint in his eye that hungers for gossip. John swallows a sigh.

"So what, Sam?"

"So what was he like?"

"You met him briefly the last time he was here didn't you? You know what he's like."

Sam snorts at the brush off and leans forward in the seat, drawing a creak from it's legs. "Barely! And he didn't say anything but hello to me. I want to know if what they say about him is true."

"And what is that, Sam? That they say about him?" He spits the _they_ with disdain because he has heard in the past what people have whispered about Alexander, be it true or false. Sam seems to understand that he's struck a nerve and drops his gaze in apparent embarrassment.

"That...that he's a patriot.  That he represented New York in Philadelphia. That he's brilliant, a word smith." The boy is obviously tripping over his words, choosing them carefully. Of course there's gossip about Alexander, there always has been, and being the public figure he is, the controversial one at that just for his role in Washington's cabinet alone, of course there are _things_ said about him.

He knows it's overly defensive, but he's heard the way they spoke of him during the war, of his misbegotten origins, or of his rumored amorous ways. He makes a conscious effort to not worry on it too much, especially at the bashful look on the boys face. In the year or so he has known him, Sam has not once been one to court dissension. He recognizes the boys excited inquiry as only that and the kid is surely not aware of the nature of certain rumors, if he's even heard them.

"He is all of those things." He replies evenly. "He also knows that, so he does occasionally overreach himself." He pauses. "At least, that is the impression I came to the past couple days."

"And the factory? Whatever did you discuss that kept you away for almost 3 days?"

He bites at the inside of his cheek to regulate the grin that threatens to brighten his face. Instead, he manages to only allow for the soft curve of his lips, and a gentle laugh.

"That, Samuel," He begins, rising off the bed. He motions to the chair at which Sam sits, beckoning for him to hand off his jacket. "That we will discuss over dinner. Come now. I'm sure Edward is eager to hear it as well."

They leave his shanty and head towards the mill house, and Sam tells him about the work they've accomplished while he was away. There was nothing major, some maintenance for the pulleys and shafts that help the millstones turn, and made some repairs to the first floor joists. As they enter the mill, the scent of warm chicken on the spit greets him first. As they let the door slide shut behind them, the three other men turn and hail a greeting. Their faces are flushed with the heat, and by extension, what appears to be ale in their mugs. He laughs.

_Home_. It’s almost a traitorous thought for someone who’d wanted to stay independent, and he expects to reject the idea of a home but he finds it strangely comforting. The table is composed of three chairs on one side, and a bench on the other, which Jasper currently occupies alone. Upon seeing them enter, Jasper shifts over just a bit and slams his hand palm down on the free space of the bench, motioning for him to join. Sam takes one of the chairs on the other side. Drinks await the both of them.

"Jacky! Hope you like the bird, we made it just for you!"

"It's been two days Edward. I’ve hardly given you time to miss me!”

"Ah yes, but two days with a politician has to be like a week in normal folks time." Thomas chimes in from across the table and Sam laughs with him. John shakes his head and grabs the mug, taking a long swallow from it, relishing in the savory quality of the ale. He hums appreciatively and wipes at his mouth as Edward slides him a plate to match the others settings and then goes to move the bird to a platter.

"It wasn't so bad. He knows quite a bit about business, and had a few suggestions I think may be worth our time to discuss. It may not be such a bad idea to be friends with a man like that."

"I don't disagree." Edwards agrees, placing a large wooden pallet in the middle of the table, and motioning for everyone to help themselves. These dinners have always lacked the desperation John had grown accustomed to in the military. They always let Sam go first, then Jasper, then Thomas and Edward---it wasn't consciously done, but he always found himself waiting to go until the last, but they would always make sure to leave him something worthwhile.

Edward collected himself and took his share, sliding into his seat across from where John and Jasper sat and spread a napkin out over his lap with a nod. "So. What sorts of thing did you think was most of value?"

"Well," John begins, stabbing at the bird now that it was his turn, before looking back up at Edward with a smile, "what are your thoughts on trade?"

* * *

They spend most the evening as they usually do, mixed with business and pleasure. It is no surprise when Thomas and Sam delve into the politics of things, leaving Edward and Jasper and himself to their own devices. They agree Boston is a good plan and Edward tasks John with the planning of it before he excuses himself for bed. Sam and Thomas are still going around and around when Jasper finishes his drink and declares it time for his own retreat, and John decides to follow, lest he be pulled into their spirited discussion.

The moon allows for the only light as they navigate their way back. Both are a bit heady with drink, so they make jokes about their friends and about themselves, and when they chuckle into a few moments of silence, Jasper speaks first.

"Whatever did you two speak about for almost 3 days? It couldn't have just been about work."

The way he brings Alexander up out of nowhere catches John off guard, but he doesn't rush to be defensive. Instead, he shrugs. "A lot of it was. He told me about some of his other work. And as you may recall, he served in quite a capacity during the war. We traded some tales back and forth."

"Anything of note from him? I bet he has loads of interesting stories given his position."

John shrugs. There are loads of them, anecdotes of events he’d experienced first hand where he could easily play the part of having heard it secondhand. But then there were tales he would never tell anyone, moments that had just been he and Alexander, or he and the General, or Lafayette, or anyone else. The moments when none of them knew if any of them would live or die, if the entire rebellion would collapse in on itself, moments where they weren't sure who could be trusted.

Jasper was looking at him patiently, and he was struck to realize that Jasper was being polite; while he was surely curious how the lives of the men of that ranking lived, John was sure that Jasper had probably equally exciting experiences that he held just as dear, and this was a sort of commonality he was grasping at, an equalizer. John chuckled in the silence, shaking his head.

"Nothing anymore exciting than what we've each surely lived, eh? He was quite impressed when I mentioned one of the men here was also a veteran of the war. You should know how highly he holds those who serve in regard. I'm sure he'd like to meet you one day."

"Perhaps." Jasper shrugs. They've come upon his cabin and both stopped, preparing to say their good-nights and go their separate ways, but Jasper sort of hangs his head and looks toward the ground, scratching at his head.

"You know, Jack," He starts softly, finally looking back up at John. "If you ever needed to talk about the war, you can come to me too."

The man's eyes are glassy in the moonlight with the effect of their earlier spirits, and the intensity of his stare, the genuine concern that John gets from it, sends a shiver up John's back that he convinces himself is only the chill in the air. His mind echoes back to the fourth of July. "Of course I know that, Jasp."

"I'm just saying," He draws, shaking a finger in the air, a wry smile forming now, as if he were making a joke. It relieves whatever tension may have been created. "We're friends too. And if you ever needed it...you know. You should know...Anyway," He began to backtrack toward his cabin, bending his hand behind his head in an over-exaggerated open palmed wave before swaying around and sauntering toward the doorway. "G'night Jack. Get back to your bed safe now."

Jasper bringing up Alexander stays on his mind, and when he returns to his room, he lights a candle and examines himself closer in the soft light for any indication of indiscretion. How long would they be able to pass off their meetings as pertaining to mill work? It was obvious they would soon have to find a way to meet without reason related to their work, and he made a note to himself to mention it within the next letter he'd write to Alexander. He thinks that Alexander is probably not quite home yet, and if he isn’t, he wonders if Alexander is thinking of him. Of their nights in the bed? Of the lake? Of the soft, and sweet kisses they shared?

Or had those already been forgotten to the thoughts of work, and of his children and of his wife?

He shivers away the thoughts. He cannot give into such concerns if he’s to allow himself to partake in whatever this would become. He _knows_ Alexander has a wife. That he has a family, and a job, and a life that he could never envision himself having a place in. That he didn't very much _want_ a place in. He cannot bear to even consider how awkward that would be. He finds himself reticent of the very idea. He prefers his hovel, his retreat at the mill, at the spacious land on only which a few homes sat and the friends he'd made over the past year. Keeping their lives separate was the easiest way to manage this. The idea of ever returning to Philadelphia or New York, of perhaps meeting Eliza or the children, of real, tangible evidence of that different existence? He shakes his head in an effort to dispel the situation from his mind. Because then that would be real, and that may mean that whatever he and Alexander had, that it may not be.

And, having just rediscovered the memory of Alexander's skin under his fingertips, that was just something he wasn't quite willing to give up yet.

* * *

When John departs for Boston a few weeks later, it is not Edward, Jasper or Thomas who accompanies him, but the youngest of his coworkers. Sam has not ever been to Boston, he’s surprised to find; once his mother had passed in the years after the war, he was sent right up from Pennsylvania to stay with Edward and begin his work and, according to the boy, he’d never had the time nor the reason for a personal visit.

He explains to John that he’s no stranger to cities though, a bit bashful as if he believes John will think him uncultured or boorish. They’d lived just outside of Philadelphia, he tells John, and his father had died in one of the battles near them during the war. John holds back a soft smile at the boys eagerness to prove himself and he squeezes his shoulder to reassure him, and tries not to think about his own extended time in Philadelphia. He wonders, though, if he may have ever passed the boy or his mother in the streets. Had he ever fought, maybe, besides his father?

Would there have been a chance his lead had possibly been responsible for his fall?

He pushes the thoughts away. It wasn’t often but sometimes, in the dark of night of his room, he’d let his mind wander to things he could never change. He preferred to keep his thoughts towards the future, and so he had shook his head once Sam had started in about it, and forced a laugh.

“Sam, you will be fine. You’ve been working in the mill for almost 6 years now---stay confident in what you know and it won’t matter if you’ve ever seen a harbor or not.”

They arrive in the city just after lunch and settle at an Inn above a tavern central to the millers they’ll be meeting with. John has a stack of letters he’s been meaning to address, and Sam is obviously eager to explore so he cuts the boy loose for the afternoon, asking that he deliver word to a few of the owners they will be meeting with in the following days, and to establish meeting times that would work best with each. When Sam is gone, John settles in.

A few of the letter's are requests he’s been holding off on from Edward, lists of priorities he would like John and Sam to address with the Boston contacts, mostly centered around creating a type of trade circle between them, wherein they may supply flour and grain, in exchange for textiles and wood and possibly iron, as well as trade secrets in an effort to potentially consolidate what they are able to produce.

There are a few others from some millers in Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. 

And there are a few from Alexander.

He smiles, saving these for the last. A couple of these letters address business; not just the money they’ve received as part of the stimulus for the mill, but also as part of some investments Alexander has talked John into. He had insisted upon it once he realized John was obviously being compensated for his services, and had been aghast to find out that the money was just being kept in a cupboard under his side table.

Alexander had fixed him with a pitiable expression, and John had known, before Alexander had opened his mouth, of the charmingly condescending, unsolicited advice he was about to get.

“You know,” he'd begun, “it would be a much better use of your earnings to invest in some of the stocks we have established with the Bank of New York. If you could be persuaded, I would be pleased to advise you during the process to ensure the greatest returns for your investments.”

John had never cared too much for banking. In fact, he’d been often uncomfortable with some of the more unscrupulous methods they employed, and while he harbored these feelings often enough, he trusted Alexander’s abilities and had acceded to the request. He wasn’t greatly concerned about gains or losses---as long as he'd be able to maintain a sensible amount to live on, he would be fine---but if Alexander believed it to be important he would indulge him all the same.

The other letter is just for him. It’s not held together with the seal of the Office of the Secretary of the Treasury, but with the Hamilton coat of arms, and John smiles as he slides the letter opener under it, unfolding the pages. In true Hamilton fashion, he observes with a grin, there are multiple pieces of parchment, the scrawl elegant and perfectly aligned.

He settles back in his chair, crossing his legs so a foot rested on his knee. If the letter were to be intercepted, it would seem innocent enough, but to call him only Jack, instead of something more formal, it seems to exist to address two separate people at once--he can only imagine Hamilton as he wrote, an equally engaging smile on his face, pleased with himself.

Hamilton wrote candidly about life in Washington's cabinet, and then continued with more domestic topics. Eliza was doing better, he tells him, though she was still a little tired from their time with the fever. Their children were faring well, the youngest only a year old; John can tell the pride he has as he talks about how the child has begun to walk, and laughs out loud when Alexander playfully teases that his gait matches that of John's when he would drink. He asks John how life at the mill is going, if he has taken any of his suggestions into consideration and if they've made any progress. He notes, to John's concern, that there may be some issues arising with the Society. He warns of talk John may begin to hear of a man who had placed in charge of it, that there have begun to be mutterings of some improper activity with some of the funds, but he hurries to assure John that they will not be too affected. John can only assume the sensitivity of the issue is why it was absent from the other correspondence.

He folds the pages as he finishes, feeling content as he rests them against his chest. They exchange letters almost every 2 weeks; the post does not take too long, and if Alexander is not kept by work or other demands, the responses are generally steady, and he finds it helps with the distance. He tucks the letter into a caddy he keeps with him on overnight trips and lays down in the rented room to rest until Sam returns.

When the younger man is back, they go to the tavern below to dine. There is a girl, he notices, that Sam watches slide around the room, collecting mugs and chatting with the patrons.

"Did you get a chance to stop by with some of the millers?" He asks, trying to draw the young man's attention back to work. While Sam seems to hear him and nods slightly, his eyes find their way back to the girl and John can't help but roll his eyes. He scoots his chair over into Sam's eye-line and leans his head forward with a pointed look. The boy blushes.

"I mean, yes. I made my way 'round to all five, sir."

"And you were able to set up meetings?"

"Yes sir. Two tomorrow, one the next and then two on Thursday."

"Good. Very good, thank you Sam. Now," He cranes his head around casually, so as not to appear to be looking, "have you said even a word to her?"

The boy's flush deepens. "It's nothing. She is the daughter of one of the miller's I met with earlier and she was just...sweet. We spoke a little while I waited to speak with her father. She helps him there during the daytime."

"Well then." He raises his hand to signal her over, tilting his head to request service. Sam's eyes blow huge.

"Jack!"

"I merely want a drink and some bread for the table." He insists, but he's grinning when he says it. He enjoys teasing the boy; there's a strange pleasure in the way Sam’s face has gone stark white, and for some reason, John’s thoughts turn to his sister when he would play a joke on her. With a chuckle, he turns to face the woman who is striding toward their table, wiping her hands on her apron.

She looks to be in her early twenties, with dark hair tied up in a knot at the base of her neck, strands framing her face. Her cheeks are flushed with the effort of her work, but the smile doesn't seemed forced and she places her hands on her hips when she stops in front of them.

"H'lo sirs. What can I get you for tonight?"

"Hello, miss. Two mugs of ale and some bread and butter for the table? Perhaps a pallet of sliced meats, if you have it."

"We do." She turns her attention to the other man at the table who hasn't said a word. "Sam, is it? My father enjoyed speaking with you earlier. He had only nice things to say about you, and he's a hard man to impress. It's good to see you again."

He nods. "Yes. Um...yes, that's...that's good. I enjoyed our meeting as well."

John gapes at him. While he himself is not so vulnerable to the charms of a beautiful young lady, flirtation is detectable between all people and it is an almost laughable calamity at how offset the younger man is at the moment. The girl's brows raise as if she's not sure where to go with the rest of the conversation so she turns back to John.

"I'll return shortly with your ale."

"Wait, excuse me," He prompts, stilling her retreat. "I forgot to ask your name? So i'll know who to address when we visit this week."

She smiles. "Kate."

"Well, Kate. I'm Jack Ball, I'm one of the principle consultants in Plainfield." He slides a glance at Sam, then turns it back to the girl. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"As it is mine as well, Mr. Ball." With a smile and soft curtsey, she hurries off to get them their orders. John turns back to Sam, fighting a grin.

"What was that?!"

"I hate you." Sam moans softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're terrible to me. I'll never forgive you for this."

"Oh ho, boy, you surely will." He shakes his head, laughing at him. " _You_ need all the help you can get."

* * *

The initial meetings go well. The millers are interested in his experience, and while no formal agreements are made or even discussed in great detail, they leave Boston on Friday with expectations of future correspondence between the mills, and in his mind's eye, John can see some kind of web forming between them that he only imagines will solidify once the demand continues to grow.

He and Alexander continue to exchange letters every couple of weeks, and in November, he receives a brief one entreating John to steal away for some time. The family, he tells John, will be staying in Albany for the last half of December, so he has proposed to head up north early to take care of his end of year business dealings before rejoining them at the Schuyler homestead. John agrees, and arranges for the same cabin in town for the week and tells a tale of being asked by Alexander to go over some of the Society's books and examine to see if the investments have paid off.

John is first this time, early to the cabin to set a small fire burning and to straighten up. It doesn't look to have been touched since they've last visited, but there is dust and it's a bit musty so he opens a few windows since it's not terribly cold outside.

It had snowed enough at the end of November to blanket the ground with a few feet of white, but warmed shortly after, leaving only patches of ice and slush and mud that made it difficult to move around from place to place. That is not enough to dissuade Alexander, though, and he arrives by carriage, later than was expected but there nonetheless. If his expression upon his arrival is an indication, the trip was a rough one, but as he climbs gingerly down the steps, the frown on his face disappears when he looks up to see John.

The nature of their renewed relationship never failed to set a sort of ambivalence or unease upon John, but in the moment Alexander's gaze meets his own and transforms before his eyes, it's all forgotten. From the second it begins, it's a look of wonder and disbelief, as if he still cannot believe John is truly here, and then it's pure joy and it warms John to his core. To be so loved, he feels, to be so wanted; his concerns, in that moment, are alleviated.

Alexander settles in relatively quickly, setting his traveling bag in the largest room and changing out of his travel clothes. John has made sure to prepare them some tea for the afternoon, and he anticipates that they will probably just sit around and catch up on whatever they've not covered in their letters, but Alexander seems to have other plans.

"Since we've a break from the frost and it feels more like October, may you possibly be up for a brief exploration, perhaps opposite of where we spent  near the lake previously?"

John's initial impulse is to say no. The ground is a mess, and while it's not chilly, it is not terribly warm either, and he's not brought his heavier coat, so it may not be sufficient. But Alexander is looking up at him, his eyes wide and entreating, so he smiles and nods and agrees that some fresh air will do them both well.

They take a couple of horses and find their way to what looks like an entrance to some trails. The paths appear well worn, John's relieved to find. It winds into the woods, in and around trees and other brush, some completely bare, some not as much. The ground is soft in some areas and uneven, whereas others in the shade are still hard with the frost or covered in ice. Alexander talks for the most of it, saying how much he often misses getting to enjoy the wilderness with going back and forth between the Capitol and New York City. The Schuyler estate in Albany, he tells John, is nice enough, but that he's memorized all those trails with his boys and he's glad he's found some new terrain to explore.

John share a bit about the mill's land. It's less hilly and covered with more trees, and he sticks to the creek banks so that he can make sure to monitor the level and speed of the flow of the water, and if need be, to manipulate it. That seems to interest Alexander at least a little, and they discuss the various methods one could use to do so. They eventually come across a wider clearing, where two sides of the trail widen as the hills on either side grow high, and Alexander tilts a head to the left, lost in thought.

"What's over there?" He asks innocently, looking at John sideways. John can only shrug. He's not completely familiar with this area, and so he rests back, folding his arms behind him and Alexander nods, having decided his next course of action. He heads toward the hill, spotted with bare trees and rocks and mud, and John sighs immediately, stepping forward with an outstretched hand.

"Be careful, Alexander."

Alexander snorts in return and grabs for another branch to haul himself up. He climbs deftly to the top, aided by whatever rock or solid land he can set himself upon and soon his 10 or 15 feet above John, staring out across the land. He leans against the tree with a satisfied sigh that turns to a gasp.

"Oh John," He murmurs. "Have you been to this spot before? I would wager it's beautiful in the spring and summer."

John hadn't. He's stuck mostly to the land around the mill grounds, tending to their own property and creek and lake. It is obvious from his tone that Alexander would like him to join, so he dip his head with an exasperated sigh, and begins a careful climb to join his friend at the top of the bluff.

Alexander, he discovers, is not wrong. The creek they spy must feed into the lake that they had visited over the summer, but John finds he cannot see its end in the other direction; it disappears into the trees, which are skeletal and bare but are aplenty and block any way to discern it's path. There are more, away from those patches, which are evergreens, small clumps of hunter that spot the countryside. He breathes in the cool fall air and sighs out, relaxing most of his weight on his front leg, grabbing at a branch to steady himself.

"You do not embellish, Alexander. This is..." He trails off, smiling softly. He glances over, but Alexander is still looking far off, his gaze thoughtful and somewhat proud.

"It's so much nicer to look at when you don't have to worry about getting shot at." Alexander muses with a smile. "Look at what we won, John. Look at the home we have built."

John's smile softens. He shares some of the pride, and cannot help but own the knowledge that he helped fight for this but he is not Alexander. He is not New York, or Massachusetts, he does not think he can claim to have built anything, though he finds himself still content of that. But to have helped the effort succeed---

"Yes. Yes, we did."

He shifts gently, conscious of the slant of their position, but perhaps he does not consider it enough. The branch he is holding onto snaps as he moves and as he tries to plant his left foot to maintain some semblance of balance, the wet, muddy ground beneath is gives way and he tumbles backwards, over and under brambles and stones until he finds its end at the base of the hill.

He groans. He is aware of Alexander's alarmed holler, he can hear him as he lopes down unevenly, more cautious of the unstable terrain, and pushes himself up to a sitting position with a groan. He is not so young anymore, almost at 40, and he knows his body will ache in places he'd forgotten existed tomorrow.

He is wet and cold, and he can already feel that he is caked in mud. He's blinking up at the sunny sky when he hears Alexander's feet land behind him and he feels a gentle hand rest on his shoulder.

"John! John, are you alright? Oh, John, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"I'm fine, Alexander. I'm the fool who climbed up there with you." He grouses, stretching out. When he looks up and Alexander sees he's alright, John spies the shift in his expression, how his lips press together while his eyes dance. "Oh, shut up you..."

"You look like a pig at the farm." Alexander manages through a throaty chuckle. He offers a hand, and when John reaches up, Alexander grabs his palm and his forearm and pulls.

A sharp pain erupts from just behind the bone of his elbow, and he hisses, but he moves with the pull and comes to his feet, wincing at the sensation. Alexander lets his grip go, the amusement gone and waits expectantly for John to explain. John bends his arm slowly, wincing all the while and puts his hand to where it seems the pain originated. His fingers come away bloody.

"Dammit." He curses, bending his arm awkwardly to reveal the tear in his jacket right where the pain had bloomed, the edges growing dark. It's not severe, but it stings like hell and he hisses once more.

Alexander's brow wrinkle together. While he can quite plainly see it's nothing serious, no one enjoys seeing someone they care about in pain, and so he frowns and looks down at himself, as if there will be something on his person to help remedy the situation---but there is nothing. With a heavy sigh, he looks back up at John, his expression apologetic.

"We should get back so you can get cleaned up and we can get that bound so it does not get infected."

"Alexander, it's a scratch..."

"Even so," He interrupts, shaking his head, already turning to head back to where they've tied their horses. "You're covered in mud. We might as well return and get something over the fire so we may have a decent meal." He looks back with a mollifying air. "This is only the first day, I will be here until Thursday. Let us relax our old bones and get you so you don't look like an errant schoolboy."

The trek back to their lodgings doesn't take long, but John is grateful for it, for the mud is beginning to dry and make his skin stiff and itchy---he will have to soak and wash his clothes before he returns to the mill, he thinks, and he will probably want to get a new jacket made now that this one is torn. He heads inside once they arrive, and Alexander goes around the back to collect some water from the well. He kicks off his boots outside, frowning at the mess he's making, and removes his jacket at well, shaking it out, bits of dried mud flying from it. When he feels satisfied, he walks inside, hanging it on a coat rack---it will most definitely need to be replaced---and looks down at himself to examine the rest. Alexander joins him shortly after, with two pails full, and pushes one towards John.

"It will be cold," He explains apologetically. "But do the best you can to wipe down most of it, at least around the wound. When you come out, I'll help you bind it."

"Alexander, I told you..."

"Do not make me force you like you are one of my children, John." He jokes with a wink. "Now go. I'll start a fire for the rest."

John takes the pail with a sigh and heads to the room, closing the door behind himself. Alexander isn't wrong, he thinks as he pours the water into the porcelain basin sitting atop the vanity. He stares into the mirror there and frowns; it's even worse than he'd thought. His hair is, thank goodness, not nearly as long as it had been, but he still has his beard and now there's a smudge of mud just at the side of his jawline. He picks at the hair on his head and chin, and chips of drying mud fall off and he grabs at the coarse hair brush laying beside the basin to brush it out the rest of the way. After he has gotten most of it, he dips a washrag in the water---which is, as Alexander had warned, very chilly---and wipes at his hair and beard the best he can, rinsing it a few times before he's satisfied with what he's managed to rid himself of. He will need a more thorough wash later, but for now, this will do.

He removes his waistcoat and his cravat and twists his arm, now only clad in his undershirt, to look at the wound. He grimaces as he gets a better look at it in the mirror as well. The shirt can be patched, if he can get the blood from it, and he is lucky the cut is not deeper, but it will need to be bound if it is to stop oozing blood. He has nothing with shorter sleeves and in order for it to be properly attended to the arm will need to be bare, so he peels the shirt from his body and tosses it into a pile to soak later.

Alexander has not seen him like this since the war. Since before South Carolina. The memento from Combahee is an ugly one, marred and puckered skin twisting just under his ribs. There are plenty of other scars as well, markings Alexander may have been familiar with, but this is particularly heinous, and newer, and he'd wanted to hide it for as long as he'd be able. He wonders if Alexander may have felt it when they had shared a bed the last time he was here, but he cannot be sure.

He wipes himself down a bit more, spots of mud still here and there, and once he is satisfied, drops the rag in the empty pail to dispose of later and makes sure to set his things aside on an armchair near the vanity. He returns to the living area to find Alexander divested of his own waistcoat, sleeves of the undershirt rolled up to his elbows, stoking at the fire and removing the pail of water as he seems to have deemed it warm enough. As the sounds of John's footsteps, he straightens and turns, and John sees the moment when it appears to dawn on him that John is bare from the waist up.

"Feeling better?" He asks, a soft smile on his face. "How is your arm?

"I've suffered far worse."

Eyes that had focused on him when he walked into the room now trail down the length of his torso and turn down at their corners. "Yes. So I can recall."

He sighs, shaking his head, turning his back to John as he bends to fetch the pail steaming near the hearth. "Now sit. Let's get the rest of the mess off of you and bind it, no matter the lack of severity."

"As I told you before, I can do this myself, you know."

"Oh can you?" He raises a brow, his voice pitching in amusement. "You can tie a bandage with your left hand only? Quite deft in our old age, are we Laurens?"

John scowls in response but finds he can't deny the jest so he plods to the empty chair by the table and flops into it. Alexander pulls another way from the dining room table, swinging it around almost with a flourish before he himself settles down onto it, pulling the pail with him. He motions at John to offer his arm, which he does without vocal complaint, and with a gentle touch John was unaware Alexander possessed, he turns it toward him.

"I have three boys, you know, and young Angelica is not so delicate," He offers, sensing John's surprise. "You'll find I've turned into quite the nursemaid when it comes to tending to superficial wounds."

He's teasing again, but John doesn't mind. In fact, it draws a soft chuckle from him, and he relaxes back in the chair, any indignity he'd felt falling away. Alexander doesn't look up at him, but lifts the rag and begins to wipe at the wound to clean the area and apologizes with a whisper when John winces softly. Once he seems pleased with it, he grabs at another clean rag, and he folds it a few times before wrapping it once, then twice, and drawing it tightly into a knot, adjusting where it covers the tear to ensure it will fully protect it. Seemingly pleased with his handiwork, he rests back, and only then fixes John with an impish grin.

"Now then," Hamilton teases, "was that ever so bad?"

"On the contrary, _nurse_ Hamilton," John volleys back, "I found it quite agreeable."

With a soft puff of a laugh, Alexander leans over to grab at the rag again, but not before flicking some of the water towards John's face, which prompts him to jerk back away with a laugh. He relaxes, wiping at the mess, and the laughter settles as a soft smile as he looks fondly at his friend.

"Maybe you planned this, when you climbed the hill." He suggests it as a joke, playfully teasing Hamilton right back. "Maybe you wanted me to slip and fall, and get all muddy."

"Ah. Then that would make me very crafty, indeed." Alexander grins, dipping the rag into the bucket at his side and wringing it out with his hand while he lifts it. A soft huff of a laugh passes his lips and he reaches the damp cloth for the curve of John's neck, lifting his own chin as he speaks. "You missed a bit there."

He wipes at the spot and John shivers at the sensation, and his eyes meet Alexander's, whose gentle ministrations have slowed. He examines John, his gaze sliding over his face and John feels his thumb trace his jawline. He closes his eyes with a hum.

He cannot tell how long it takes, whether it is an hour or a second before Alexander's lips press to his own. He feels a rush of immediacy, and he hears the water slosh as the rag is dropped back into the bucket and it is slid away roughly across the boards.

"John...."

Alexander's words come in a gasp and instantly this is different than the last time they'd coupled. Alexander's hands are pressing into the flesh on his thighs, fingers digging into the linen of his breeches that cause a burn from his muscles at the sudden weight there but he doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he brings his hands up to hold both sides of Alexander's head, kissing back, his own head tilted up as Alexander stands a bit over him. As Alexander straightens, he grabs John's wrists and gently pulls him to his feet.

"Room?"

"Yes, please."

John tumbles onto the bed, back first, and pushes himself up and toward the head of it, scrambling to make room for Alexander, who is kicking off his shoes. He peels off his own undershirt and tosses it into the same armchair John's clothes were placed in and crawls up onto the quilted mattress, situating himself so he's on all  fours in between John's legs, his hands outside his hips. John propped himself up on his elbows, looking expectantly up at him.

Alexander's eyes are bright. While they may have shared a bed and kisses the last time they were together, it hadn't gone any further than that, and they had each been dealing with their conflicted feelings of the situation they'd found themselves in. Today had been different; it had been nostalgic, and they had bantered their way into this place. The nerves and uncertainty that had hung over their last meeting were not to be found and instead, Alexander is looking at him like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

He kisses John again, and John let's his head fall back against the railing of the headboard, letting a soft gasp slip. He moans a little as Alexander's mouth leaves his and nips at his ear, then trails a path along John's jaw and works down his neck to his collar bone. Alexander hums in appreciation, lowering himself onto his forearms as he snakes kisses down the rest of his chest to the lateral line of where sparse hair sprouts, eventually disappearing into his breeches. When he reaches this spot, he lets his teeth trail over the soft of John's belly right above the waistband, then cranes his head up to give John a wicked grin.

"It has been too long since I have partaken in such fine things, my dear, so please, be patient."

"If your tongue is anything like it was in your youth, I'm sure I will have few complaints."

Alexander chuckles at that, and slaps John on his flank before pulling back up onto his haunches, redirecting his efforts to the ties that bound John's breeches. John flushes under the motions, and can feel himself already half hard, pressing against the fabric and spies that Alexander's body is betraying him all the same. His heart is racing, and it's half out of uncertainty and he doesn't want to say it, he can't believe he's even thinking it with Alexander's hands brushing against his thighs, but he feels like he has to mention it or else he'll be worrying the whole time.

"Are you sure?" He asks quietly. There is a part of him thinking of the children Alex has waiting back at home, of the wife Alexander clearly also loves. He worries only a little of damnation, but more of the potential for shame, or regret. He needs to know this is what Alexander truly wants.  


Hamilton pauses and looks at him, incredulous. He forgets his task for the time being and crawls up the bed a little so he's situated directly over John, hair hanging down so it frames his face, the tips of it brushing against John's neck. Alexander kisses him so gently, drawing it out, as if he is savoring moment and when he looks back up at him, the look in Alexander's eyes breaks his heart just a little.

"I used to dream, you know," Alex smiles softly, sadly. "Just like this, you laid all out, and I next to you, like back at camp and that was all it was. The entire dream, just me on your chest and my hands in your hair and on your skin and your lips..." He laughs a little, but there is no humor in it. "And then I would awaken, sometimes in a cold sweat, and thank god, my Eliza was next to me, but you were not. And would never be again. But you are."

"So I understand your ambivalence. But you must understand, my dear Laurens," Alexander continues, lowering his mouth to his ear. John twitches underneath, whimpering at the warm breath. "Right now, I have never been more sure about anything in my life."

* * *

Things go about like that for the next couple of days. The snow falls again, and there is little to do other than head closer into town to dine and drink, but they always find their way back. They have a deck of cards, and a backgammon set that looks to have been left from years before, perhaps by some loyalists before the war. Alexander works on some of his writing, John reads, and they fall asleep early, and rise late. By Thursday, he is packing his things to depart for Albany and John feels a tug in his chest at the thought of the departure.

"I wish things were different too." Alexander begins when he spies John's expression. "You don't have to stay here, John. You could come live in the city. There are plenty of opportunities, even outside of public service."

"You know I can't, Alexander."

"I don't _know_ that. That is just what you insist, but you could come back. You don't give yourself enough credit, nor appreciate the esteem you were held in."

He fights a growl of frustration bubbling in his chest. How can Alexander not understand? The esteem he speaks of would be just another reason they would not accept him. And even if they did, out of pity or some strange obligation they felt, he still felt as if that was a world he did not belong to anymore.

Alexander has already given up the argument, shaking his head as he clasped the satchel he'd brought with him.

"You should come to visit sometime. When we are in New York. Betsey visits her family often, and I'm alone, although sometimes one or two of the older boys will stay."

He only shrugs and offers a tired smile to indicate he's open to the possibility. While they are inside the safety of the cabin, he pulls Alexander close and kisses him softly goodbye, for when they emerge to meet the carriage to take him home, they will be but mere business partners again.

"In the spring," Alexander offers, sensing John's mood. "Perhaps, like you said, somewhere in the middle, or closer to Boston. I know meeting here makes you nervous."

"Not nervous." He defends. "But it's awkward to explain. I worry one of them may grow suspicious."

"Why should they care?" Alexander snorts. "You know, I should come by and meet the rest of them sometime. I've only spoken with Edward, and not even he for that long. You should bring that up," He smiles up at him, wearing at the lapels of John's coat as he pulls in closer. "Give me another reason to come back soon."

It's not a terrible idea. Sam would be positively star struck at the thought, and it may be nice to have the people he's grown close to to _know_ someone so beloved. He tilts his head and nods, and admits it's a good idea. Alexander bobs up onto his toes for one last gentle peck, and squeezes at John's waist before he grabs for his jacket and opens the door.

He watches from there while Alexander says something to the driver, then climbs up into the carriage with a wave and closes the door behind him. He tracks their retreat until it's a blot upon the expanse of white and grey. It's grown much colder since the first day of their visit, and the smell of a coming snow invades his senses.

His stomach twists and falls, and he wonders, will this only worsen the closer and more reacquainted they become? The understanding that they will be parted with little other than letters to tie them together for months amplifies a loss that is already tangible; for now, he wishes nothing more than to be in his own bed, under his pelts and blankets and to sleep for days. There will be no shared smiles for a time, no more jokes between just themselves, and no one to ask how this person so dear to him is doing. No one will know. No one could.

These days were wonderful, the moments unmatched by anything he'd done in his years away, but he sensed this emptiness, this lack of fulfillment that replaced Alexander; would that absence hang like a spectre behind him until he could figure out how to banish it? He could ignore it, he knew, for long enough, but he wondered if eventually it would get to be too great. Would it be too hard, he wondered? Would there come a day when these meetings wouldn't be enough to sustain him?

He can't conceive it. He can't imagine not having Alexander in his life now that they'd found each other again---the thought of it alone drove the breath from his lungs. The idea of joining him in the city, though, the idea of trying to fit into his life there somehow, seems doubly impossible, so he supposes he'd have to press it away, like a great many other things in his life, and settle to feel blessed with the time they were lucky enough to be granted, as it were.

He looks up at the sky. The sun is peaking through the gray and he shivers; the open air always seemed to bite more, and there was surely work to be done. He pushes the concerns away, determined to let his worries alone, and heads toward the stable in the back to collect his mare. He needs to be getting back to the mill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the time between updates, but i've been sick twice (allergies, i think, are partially to blame) and with the election stress/depression and rewriting a bunch of this, it's been some time. I really don't think the next chapter will take as long, although it will cover a much longer period of time and will be shorter. but i really appreciate anyone who is still reading. i've written a lot of this in other parts, and the end, and i've never felt this invested in a story, so I WILL get there but. it can be hard. 
> 
> again, thank you so much for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! thanks to @talriconosco for the beta. this is a bit shorter than usual, so apologies, but i can tell you, the next chapter is already 3k words long and I still have a little left so. it'll be back to longer soon :)

The mild winter doesn't last long. Once January comes, the temperature drops and a blizzard hits. The lake and river that lead to the mill freeze over and their production slows. John suggests they rent out spots for ice fishing on their property to make up the difference.  John spends most of his time inside at the cabin Sam and Jasper share, playing card games, drinking, and talking by the firelight. John has found himself growing closer to all of the men at the mill, with Jasper and Sam especially, as they are closer in age. Their conversations deepen, they discover shared interests in books, or music, or plays, although Sam vastly underexposed to most of it. But that only presents more opportunity, because they get to share it with him, and John finds a calm satisfaction in imparting such fine things to a curious mind. Not for the first time, Sam reminds him of his brothers.  
  
Despite the weather, John and the others make an effort to solidify their connections in Boston. John makes plans to begin visiting more often when the thaw arrives, but, surprisingly, Sam’s ties seem to strengthen the most. One night, while joking about some sort of dance or another at the local tavern, Sam admits that he and Kate have been exchanging letters. Immediately after, though, Sam falls quiet, his face flushed.  
  
"Oh surely that’s not all you have to say about her?" John asks softly, glancing at Sam across the table. Sam looks up at him with a shrug, hiding behind a mouthful of ale. Jasper exchanges a look of jest with John, and moves up on Sam from behind  
  
"Ah, ah, I've seen you with your letters, all hunched over your desk," Jasper prods, swooping in close to the Sam and settling on the seat next to him. "Wouldn't have brought it up if there weren't more to it. You got something you're hiding from us, Sammy?"  
  
"Jasp, stop," The young man growls, pulling his ale closer to his chest. Thinking fast, John decides that if Jasper is to play the stick then he will play the carrot. John leans forward, casting a reproachful glance at Jasper.  
  
"Leave the man alone," John says, making sure to stress that Sam is indeed grown. "Now, come on, Sam. Are you also courting Kate?"  
  
Jasper looks about ready to spit his ale across the room with a laugh, but John nails him still with a pointed look and focuses back on Sam, who finally raises his eyes from the table to look at him.  
  
"Jack," Sam whispers, terrified. "I think I'm in love."  
  
Jasper can't help it, fool that he is. He coughs out a laugh, spraying ale all over the space behind them as he chokes. John, knowing all too well the agony of long distanced affection, merely cuffs the boy on his shoulder and shakes it gently with a smile.  
  


* * *

  
When John and Alexander finally manage to catch a few days together in April, it is a far too brief encounter . They coordinate to meet south of both Albany and Plainfield, and they once again pass the weekend in a haze of meals, games, and sex, as though they were young men once more. They wade in a small river nearby and fuck against the parlor room furniture until they are falling asleep in a pile on the floor. It's not as desperate as before; not as candescent; but then neither of them is as parched for the other's affections. It is comfortable.  
  
They separate, and the seasons move quicker. There's a weekend in the summer when Kate visits with a chaperone and it pains John to witness how little Sam knows about wooing the object of his affection. She is only there for a few days, but by the end of it, he slowly learns, offering wildflowers he picks while they're out working along the river, or saving her extra cakes for dessert that he finds she especially likes.   
  
John takes it upon himself to engage the older lady that has come with Kate on their last day in town, giving the younger couple a chance to slip away for a moonlit stroll somewhere on the property. When they leave the next day, he doesn't ask for details, nor does Sam offer them, but there’s a spring in his step for weeks.  
  
Alexander writes that he will visit in September, then November, but both trips are pushed back. The first for a tax rebellion against whiskey in Pennsylvania, and the second because Eliza has lost a child.   
  
The Whiskey issue is much easier for John  to take, in part because he looks forward to Alexander's recounting of it, but also because it is a matter of national importance. The miscarriage hits harder, for it is a bitter reminder that Alexander and Eliza are, of course, continuing to have children.   
  
Of course Alexander is married. Of course he has responsibilities to a family.Of course John has known all of that, but there's something about seeing it written in ink and made indelible; a woman and children both exist and don't, outside of this as they are, and it dismantles him a little inside.  
  
Winter arrives again; John and Alexander can see each other only briefly, when Alexander manages to steal away for a few days. Alexander arranges a longer visit for the following summer at the mill, and coordinates with Edward and the others so he will get to know them better.   
  
It is then, however, that he sits them down and explains that an associate that had gotten himself into a fair amount of legal trouble. As a result, the Society from which the mill had received funding would now be largely defunct.  
  
"I errantly trusted Duer to assist me in the duties of the Treasury,” Alexander explains, expression pained, “and because of his speculation crimes of a few years ago, the Society's reputation has been decimated. Please accept my apologies for any disappointments this is going to bring upon you, I would like to stress that most of all."   
  
The truth is, they are not in dire need of the assistance, not any more. The initial supplements were helpful, but they soon realized they had not the land nor the manpower to expand too extravagantly. Now that they've established trade agreements with some of the other state merchants, John wonders if this will affect them at all.   
  
For now, Edward offers a friendly smile and tells Alexander not to worry.  Edward meets John's gaze, and he realizes Edward is thinking much the same about the future of the mill. John wonders again if maybe he hasn't given Edward the credit he's deserved over the years; although Edward may not be much of an engineer, he obviously has other knowledge. John realizes, ashamedly, that he doesn't know much about the older men from the mill at all--neither Edward nor Thomas. He should really change that, and soon, even if it may mean being a little more open about himself.  
  
Edward invites Alexander to stay for dinner and the night, insisting that he use the extra room in the mill-house. Alexander exchanges a quick glance with John before agreeing. It means they will have little, if any, privacy, but both men know they are not animals---they don't always couple together and share a bed when they have their visits, and this doesn't have to be any different. If anything, Alexander looks almost amused, and John thinks back to how he'd practically invited himself to visit after their last meeting in town and he realizes, fighting back a shake of his head, that Alexander is looking forward to entertaining new folks with his wit, his intellect and his tales of inside of Washington’s inner circle.  
  
Man of the people, that one.  
  
Sam, as expected, is absolutely taken with Alexander. He tries not to be obvious, but John sees how the youngest of their team follows Alexander , how he nabs a seat across from him at supper, how he refills Alexander's wine without question. Thomas shakes his head at the boy, looking exasperated. When the subject of public comings and goings comes up, Thomas is usually to whom Sam turns; John thinks to suggest that Thomas engage Alexander in a discussion, perhaps over France or the Whiskey Tax they'd just defended, but decides that it can wait until after the roast.  
  
They end up in the parlor by the fire, where Alexander regales Sam with stories of being General Washington's aide during the war. Alexander's gaze slides to meet John's, eyes twinkling, while he tells his story of taking Redoubt 10 during the Battle of Yorktown in the dark of night, the honorable and brave John Laurens at his side.   
  
John tries not to hold the gaze for too long; no one would suspect, of course, but he'd prefer not to invite the notion.  
  
Jasper has been quiet ever since supper. Though it wasn't unusual for mostly silence as they ate, it's now the way he's sunk into the furniture, off to the side,  which gives John the impression that Jasper is not as well taken with their guest as the others. It is not a surprise, however; John has never seen Jasper warm quickly to anyone.  
  
John rises to head to the dining room and pour himself more wine and Jasper follows close behind to do the same. They pass into the other room and he sidles up next to John  with a sigh.  
  
"Sam does know we fought in the war too, right?" Jasper grumbles. John laughs, shaking his head.  
  
"He's only excited,” John excuses. "Alexander has that effect on people."  
  
Jasper scoffs in return. "So I've gathered." He spins around, leaning against the cabinet so he's facing John, and crosses his arms. "I'm just saying. He's only a flesh and blood man, same’s the rest of us. You and I are just as smart as he is."  
  
John gives him a skeptical look.  
  
"Well, you're just as smart as he is, at least," Jasper amends with a rueful grin.  
  
"He's notorious for many things. It's understandable Sam would be a little awestruck,"John replies, uncorking the decanter.  
  
Jasper clearly disagrees; he scoffs roughly, spins back around, and snatches the decanter from John's hands to pour the wine himself. John watches him quietly, and then begins to laugh. Jasper scowls back at him.  
  
"Jasp...are you jealous of Alexander Hamilton?"  
  
" _No_ ," Jasper spits, but the way he slams the wine down would indicate otherwise. "I'm just saying, Sam’s making a fool of himself, tripping all over with praise and stars in his eyes. It's not like the man is George Washington."  
  
"A valid point."  
  
They jump at the words, and whirl around. It takes everything in John not to burst with laughter at the sight of Alexander leaning against the doorjamb. Jasper's face turns scarlet, and he mutters something that sounds like a capitulation before storming off. Alexander watches with a soft grin, and steps further into the room to allow Jasper’s passage. Once clear, Alexander strolls closer to John and reaches around him to pour himself some more of the drink.  
  
"I don't think your friend Jasper likes me very much," he comments, sipping as he looks up at John with a few deliberate blinks. He receives a soft slap on the arm for it.  
  
"You loved every moment of that."  
  
Alexander laughs, winks, and, with a quick look at the door to ensure no one is coming, springs up to peck John’s lips.  
  
"That is absolutely true," he says, stepping back to keep John at arm’s length.  
  
They get back into the parlor. If possible, Jasper has grown even more sullen than before, folding further in on himself with his arms crossed over his chest. Before John crosses the open space at the center of the group, he makes sure to poke at Jasper’s foot with his own in an effort to comfort him. John gets it, though; they have all grown close, and it is plain to see that Jasper thinks of Sam as family, despite Jasper’s efforts to conceal his affection. When Jasper looks up at him with the hint of bashful grin, he knows the other man feels foolish for his jealousy. John winks so that only Jasper can see, and then joins Alexander on the adjoining couch.  
  
It's been a long night already and he can feel the light, floaty feeling of his mind relaxing as the warmth of the fire conspires with the wine to make him feel boneless. He slumps back against the couch cushion with a soft sigh, mildly conscious of Alexander's arm stretched out along the back and makes sure to remind mindful enough that he doesn't slump against the man's side.   
  
It does entice though, if not for the roomful of people.  
  
They've begun a lively debate now, Thomas, and Alexander, and Sam, about the Army, with a bit of ' _back in Thomas' time_ ', and about politics. John is content just to listen listen. Edward has retired for the evening, and Jasper is listening, half interested, with the occasional comment when it serves about how different it was to fight in the South for so long.  
  
He barely realizes it when Alexander's hand finds the base of his neck and settles there. The others don't seem to notice, and why should they? His arm is merely propped up, his fingers moving slowly at the top of his spine every so often, once or twice with an affectionate, silent squeeze. He doesn't look over at Alexander, and Alexander doesn't look at him. Alexander's fingers tickle at his collar, moving in a circle that sends a shiver down his spine.  
  
It’s definitely the hand, John tells himself, though the sensation spreads cold in his gut. His unease -- it’s just from Alexander’s hand.  
  
It's definitely not the way that Jasper is looking at John, the same way he'd looked when Sam had been mooning over Alexander. It's definitely not the way Jasper looks like he’s thinking on something a little too deeply.  
  
That has nothing to do with it.

* * *

  
Alexander stays a few more days, at Edward's insistence, and whatever tension may have existed between Jasper and Alexander is gone by the time the latter departs. The men of the mill wish him well, saying that they hope to see him soon.  
  
He rides off in a carriage, back to the city, back to his life, back to his wife.  
  
John stands for a second or so longer than the others, watching the carriage grow smaller as he let himself wonder when he’d visit with him again, but soon finds himself gathering with the rest of the men of the mill and discussing the visit and it's merits He’s somehow not as crestfallen as he had been before.  
  
That fall brings an engagement for Sam and Katie, and so the winter months are spent planning a austere celebration. Edward insists on sharing some of the expenses, which Sam consistently refuses, and they go round and round into the New Year. The winter is harsh, as it tends to be.They again rent out spots on the river and lake to fish, and rely on much of their product surplus to trade for supplies which should last until the thaw.  
  
The spring of 1796 bring cherry tree blooms and a wedding. Sam and Kate marry in Boston. Jasper stands up beside Sam when the vows are made,  He and John give speeches, though by the time John’s turn arrives, the night has grown old and he is perhaps a bit more more raucous and impromptu than originally intended.  
  
Kate's father bequeaths the pair a small cottage close to his own property, and announces that he will bring Sam on as one of the associates of his business. Her father has three properties to his name, a textile, steel and saw mill, which makes his interest in a partnership with their grist mill all the more understandable.   
  
Eventually, the couple retires for their first night together. John and Jasper help to clean up what they can and end up having drinks with the help until it’s almost dawn but manage to get some bit of sleep. When Sam and Kate depart in the morning for their honeymoon, faces glowing, a heavy lump settles into John’s stomach. Their ride back to Plainfield is quiet, and missing one of their own. Edward stares out the window, Thomas tries to read, and Jasper is asleep at next to John, pressing into the side panel closest to the door. Any various points in the 3 hours it takes to travel home, he finds their gazes catch his own, and it’s evident the gloom is shared.   
  
These men have become something to him, John realizes as he falls asleep that night.It’s as it was during the war---a family, of sorts. It had happened so slowly, as bonds of friendship do, that he had not even noticed; yet it is plainly evident now, as he reflects on the festivities from their trip. Despite the similarities, it makes him feel less like John Laurens than ever.  
  
If not for Alexander, would the man he'd been have disappeared completely?  
   
A letter from Alexander comes near the end of May; it’s more insistent than ever. They've been exchanging letters since the previous summer, though neither has been able to steal away. In every missive,  Alexander entreats him to visit; in every reply, John evades the suggestions, though his resolve weakens with every stroke. Alexander's skill with a quill has always been his greatest weapon.  
  
"Come to the city," the letter of May pleads. "The treaty with the English is getting difficult with what is happening in France. I won't be able to get away for a visit, but Eliza and the children will be up in Albany all summer. A couple of the boys want to stay behind, but they will be so busy with their lessons, they won't be a bother. Come. Stay for the summer."  
  
It’s only fair, really, John rationalizes as he pens an agreement back. Alexander has made so many trips north; so many times, Alexander has changed his own plans and gone out of his way to make sure he’s in John’s life.   
  
And besides. It’s been too long since he’s seen New York City.


	9. Chapter 9

John arrives in New York in the middle of June. The heat is sweltering and the air is thick, as close to the water as they are. He's arranged for an apartment some distance from Alexander’s home in Harlem, and he settles there first before sending a note to let Alexander know he's arrived.  
  
He receives an invitation the next day for dinner with Alexander and his sons; his wife has taken the rest of the children to Albany for the summer. But then Alexander mentions a guest, someone to whom he looks forward to introducing John.  
  
John hesitates when he reads it. A guest? His eyes study the sentence again, caution building as he reads the rest of the letter trying to discern who the mystery person may be. Would it be another old friend? Even though he'd been clear that he wanted to be as discreet as possible?  
  
It ends with a note, requesting John arrive earlier in the day when the boys will be gone from the home on an errand, heavy with the implication that Alexander will explain further once he is there.  
  
So it is that the next day, just before John would take a midday meal, he arrives at Alexander’s in a rented carriage. Despite the heat, he wears a long coat with tails that reach almost to his heel, and a large, wide brimmed collar which he flips up as if he'd expected it to rain. Perhaps he will draw curious eyes, but he'd prefer someone only catch a glimpse of him and think him odd than think him familiar.  
  
He alights and stares up at the brick facing of Alexander’s home. It's impressive enough, which is unsurprising considering Alexander's station in Washington's administration. Alexander had always been exceptionally conscious of perceptions about himself, his character, and his station. John had never much worried about it during the war, outside of his daily dress and personal outward appearance; but then again, he'd never much had to, as Alexander had pointed out once or twice when he'd been teased for it.  
  
He knocks and a young woman answers the door, opening it widely with a brief curtsy to let him in. She's been told to expect someone, he realizes, and nods in a return gesture as he crosses the threshold and removes his hat and hands it to her.  
  
“Did you have a pleasant trip, sir?”  
  
“I did…” He lets his sentence trail long and fade, and she smiles.  
  
“Emily, sir.”  
  
He acknowledges it with a smile and a nod. “Thank you, Emily.”  
  
She takes his coat as well and gestures him  into an adjacent empty room. “If you please, sir.”  
  
It has a set of pocket doors that are open just enough for him to slide through, and he finds himself alone in Alexander's home for the first time. He surveys the area and decides it must be his office; there's a small fireplace in the corner near a large window that faces the street, with a sofa in front of it. Small bookshelves line the wall; they packed with books which appear to address everything from political theory and finance to general leisure. On the other side of the room, there's a desk with a roll back top, an inkwell at the top corner and a parchment that has some things already jotted down on it. He peers at it only briefly, because to spy too much would be rude, but he can see that the ink is not yet completely dry.  
  
"Laurens!" Behind John, the wood doors slide wide, and he looks up to see Alexander beaming at him from the doorway, his hands still affixed to each handle. He steps inside, sliding them shut behind him as he walks so they bang together softly and stay open only a sliver, and he embraces his friend tightly. John can practically feel him vibrating with excitement.  
  
"Hello, Alexander," John answers, pulling back with a smile. He wants to correct him, wants to tell him that his name is Ball and he must call him that, that he must be more mindful of it but he restrains himself; he cannot bring himself to dampen how Hamilton beams at the fact that he is here.  
  
"How was your trip to the city?" Alexander returns, quickly moving over toward the desk and rifling through some papers set to the side. He picks up a small bell and rings it before continuing to search for whatever it was he was looking for. Shortly, the young woman who answered the door appears again, this time with a tray with a kettle of tea, two empty cups, and a plate of biscuits. John goes over and helps to part the doors, an act for which he receives a grateful smile. He watches her as she sets the tray down near the sofa and rises without a word, letting herself out of the office and closing the doors again so only a sliver of space is between either of them. Alexander hasn't looked up at all.  
  
"You keep a slave?" John asks, staring at the door. His tone must have been more judgemental than he'd completely intended to convey, because Alexander abandons his current task, jerking his head up with a glare.  
  
"Emily is a free woman," Alexander defends, clearly offended. "She is paid for her labor here. And it's only when Eliza is not present to tend the home."  
  
John hums in understanding. Alexander watches him for a moment, as if expecting some kind of follow up but when John offers none, he shakes his head and returns to the shuffle of papers. Once he finds what he appeared to have been looking for he walks over to John, a frown still on his face, and shoves a stack of paper at him. "Here. If you can, please look over that and let me know your thoughts."  
  
"Alex, I didn't mean anything by it."  
  
"No, just that you thought I was a slaveholder."  
  
John doesn't mention that it is not a far-fetched notion. Doesn't mention that he knows from memory that the Schuyler’s held plenty in human bondage. Doesn't mention that Alexander is now, technically, a Schuyler as well as a Hamilton, and given his elevated status in society, it's not an unfair assumption. He merely sighs heavily and grabs at Alexander with his free hand, catching his attention and meeting his gaze. "I'm sorry I assumed she was your property. You're right, I should know you well enough to at least allow you the benefit of the doubt."  
  
Alexander regards him quietly, as if deciding to hold onto this or let it go. In the end, he chooses the latter and deflates. "Apology accepted. Now, to those notes I just gave you..."  
  
They settle on the sofa, and Alexander begins to explain the work that has required him to remain in the city while most of his family retires for the summer to the family estate. The decision to stay out of the French conflict has incited ill will between the United States and foreign dignitaries, he explains, as well as between Alexander and Secretary Jefferson---though that particular fact seems to somewhat delight Alexander.  
  
Meanwhile, Jon Jay had been occupied in England trying to tie up loose ends that the Treaty of Paris at the end of the war had not. Jay had managed to negotiate an agreement with their former motherland which would hopefully help in avoiding future conflicts with England. What Alexander has handed John is a summary of the agreement in hopes for his thoughts on the matter.  
  
"So what is the concern?" John asks, skimming over the major points as Hamilton has enumerated them. "These seem reasonable enough."  
  
John has no strong affection for the British, despite his escape to the island during his self-imposed exile, but he also knows that maintaining an antagonistic relationship with them can not be helpful in the long run. Alexander sighs and rises from his seat to pace slowly. His chin drops to his chest, the stress he's been under suddenly evident in his posture as he begins to explain.  
  
"The Democratic Republicans are displeased with any sort of treating with the British. They accuse Washington and I of desiring to install a monarchy here, and have made the claim that any cooperation is tantamount to treason. They argue we should be pushing back on any sort of agreements, but they have one of the strongest economies in the world, John. They are a vital trading partner, but Jefferson and Madison do not see the value in open trade, especially with the British."  
  
"And you've held town hall sessions? Taken to the streets in an attempt to convince voters and their representatives?"  
  
Alexander stops in his paces, appearing hesitant. He looks away from John towards the mantle of the fireplace. "There have been...demonstrations..."  
  
John stares curiously at the back of Alexander's head, hoping the silence is response enough. Alexander tosses a glance at him quickly over his shoulder, blushes, and walks further away. "They've been largely confrontational. They are beasts, John, you've no idea! The things they say, and they throw stones and garbage like animals, and..."  
  
"Alexander," John interrupts and leans forward from where he sits. "Who did you challenge?"  
  
"Who did I challenge?" He asks, as if the idea is outlandish. "Nicholson insulted me, and then we resolved it at a later date, and that was that."  
  
But the way Alexander has rushed through it, the way he is still turned away from him, leads John to believe that is not all.  
  
"An evasion," John remarks with a soft chuckle. "Who did you challenge, Alexander?"  
  
His friend looks back at him over his shoulder with an embarrassed smile. "All of them."  
  
"All of them?" John laughs in surprise, slapping at his knee. "Alexander…!"  
  
"It's fine, it's fine, we've resolved most of it..." Alexander waves his hand, moving so that he is half-sitting on the arm of the chair. "The vote over the treaty will be held at the end of the summer, and so I would like to have made my case as thoroughly as possible by that point."  
  
"Your pride will be the death of you." John playfully admonishes, making sure he's grinning to indicate he's only teasing, but there's a small note of truthful concern to it. He's well aware of his own hypocrisy, and knows that had he stayed here, gotten involved in politics, that his own fervor may have led him to one or two similar confrontations but he did not stay, and has removed himself from such an impassioned service.  
  
Alexander chuckles dryly, exchanging a wry look with John. He understand the underlying humor of it, but he soon sobers as his mind resettles on the serious. "It is incredibly important that we solve this in the right way. We're in a terribly delicate situation; we cannot afford to go to war with anyone right now, hence why we have remained neutral on the going-on's in France. There is no need to be uselessly incendiary when it comes to the British, with whom our relationship is already tenuous."  
  
John feels a strange twinge of envy, a sort of wistful reflection on what could have been, but it passes as quickly as it had manifested. He'd have been terrible at diplomacy and government, and he knows it; his brief stint in Paris with Ambassador Franklin near the war's end had proven as much, where his opinion had been too freely given and sensibilities were sometimes offended.  
  
No, he'd known himself unwilling to play the game that was politics, and so now he would only indulge such opinions at Alexander's request for his counsel, which he was all too happy to give. He skims over the summary of the provisions of the treaty once more and nods. "Let me have some time to review it further and think on it. Give me some time. As I'd written, I plan to stay for some matter of weeks."  
  
Alexander softens at the reminder, relaxes and smiles. John pushes himself to stand, folding the parchment and tucking it away inside his jacket.  He wanders over to where Alexander is perched on the arm of the sofa, and positions himself so he's almost straddling Alexander's outstretched leg. John's gaze flickers to the door, assuring that it is closed and they are alone, and he placed his fingers on Alexander's hips where he sits.  
  
"Yes?" Alexander asks, those his lips are twisted in a wry smile as he looks up at John through his lashes.  
  
"Nothing. I just wanted to say hello,” John says lowly, and stays there for a moment. "We've not had a moment with one another like this in some time, and while I'm hesitant in such a setting..." He smiles. "I'm just glad to see you."  
  
Alexander chuckles. "Oh, Mister Laurens," he mutters, leaning up and placing a kiss on his lips. "You continue to surprise."  
  
John presses forward, deepening the kiss for just a bit longer, drawing a muffled laugh from the other man. "I've missed you. I didn't feel like we got to spend very much time together last summer."  
  
"Well as you have said, hopefully we will have more than enough time to make up for that this season..." Alexander answers and pushes himself up to stand, perhaps to move closer, perhaps to press into John one last time, because John won't let that happen, not here, not in the house he shares with his wife and his children....  
  
John swears he hears the door rattle, and whether it be his imagination as he tries to steer himself calm, or just the home, he jumps back just a little, gaze whipping around to the paneled doors which have not appeared to have moved in the slightest.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"What was what?"  
  
"I thought I heard the door make a sound..."  
  
Alexander examines him without care. "The house settles John, it's nothing. Emily is the only other person here for now, and if she hears or sees anything, she'll keep quiet about it."  
  
"How can you be certain?"  
  
"Because I can!" Alexander insists, exasperated, looking at John now as if he's never heard something so silly. "She has been entrusted with many secrets, state and otherwise, I promise you. And even then! We were just standing close together, John, not even . It's not as if you had me bent over the chair table."  
  
"Alexander." John hisses, his gaze pointed but Alexander again waves it away.  
  
"It is nothing. I didn't even hear it. Emily is trustworthy, and the boys went to the market right before you arrive, I made sure give Phillip some coin to keep his brother occupied. John Church, our youngest, has stayed behind from Albany. A clever little one, John is. He's only 5 but he's at that stage, you know, when they think they are older than they are." He shakes his head with a shrug. "They will be back shortly."  
  
"With your guest?" John asks with a raised brow. Alexander appears to sense his apprehension.  
  
"It's no one you're familiar with, no one who will find you out." He leans back against the back of the sofa, crossing his arms in front of him. "He is young. He was sent to America to stay with the General, but because of the situation i've spoken on earlier, with the French, it isn't exactly the best of times. He is staying here for the time being."  
  
John's heart picks up. "Lafayette?"  
  
"Georges Lafayette." Alexander's face broke into a gentle smile. "Gilbert's son. We were able to smuggle him out of Paris before his mother and sisters were taken to the Olmutz..."  
  
But John isn't hearing him. Not Gilbert; his son. He remembers when the man came back from France after his brief absence, bragging of a son gifted to him by his wife, named for their General. He'd had a sketch of him, of all of his children, and he had gone on and on about all of their perfections.  
"And what of our Lafayette?" John interrupts. Alexander's mouth parts, brow furrowing in confusion.  
  
"What do you mean, what of our Lafayette?" Alexander peers at John then, tilting his head to the side. "John, you don't...? Well, I assumed you knew."  
  
_Knew what?_ John thinks angrily and he balls his fist against his hip where it rests. There's a roaring in his ears, his heart beating more wild than before, and it seems Alexander can tell he is out of sorts. He walks closer to him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. John assumes the worst.  
  
"When?" He croaks; _I failed him_. "How?"  
  
"When?" Alexander shakes his head, eyes widening suddenly in comprehension. "No, no, John, Lafayette isn't dead. But it's...complicated."  
  
He continues on quickly, telling John of how Lafayette had left Paris and taken a brief command in the south of France before fleeing the country when it had become too dangerous for him to stay within the mob’s grasp. He had planned to come to America, but he'd been captured in Austria and imprisoned. His wife and daughters had joined him there recently, but his friends had seized the opportunity to spirit away young Georges in the middle of the night, entrusting one of Gilbert’s most precious assets to his General’s care.  
  
"...but with the tension between the French Ambassadors and his Excellency, we thought it prudent that the boy stay with us until relations improve,” Alexander finishes, wringing his hands together in a sort of helpless gesture. "John, I was sure you knew already. It's been all in the papers during this mess of deciding on how to act. But it's not the most pleasant of topics, and so...." He shrugs. "I suppose I should have brought it up before now."  
  
It wasn't as if it had been something John had wanted to discuss.  
  
"It's actually is really a wonderful arrangement. He and Phillip are close in age and have gotten along quite well since he arrived a month or so ago. He is with the boys at the market, and I am sure they are enjoying themselves. If anything, I fear they may just as roguish together as the three of us once were," Alexander laughs, then falls silent, peering with concern at John. "Are you alright? You look upset..."  
  
"I can't stay for dinner, Alexander, I'm sorry..." John spins, setting down the tea cup and making his way towards the door. Alexander cuts him off, his hands held in front of him to stop John from leaving.  
  
"John, John, no, wait..." He grabs at him, appearing bewildered. "Whatever are you concerned about? There is no way you will be discovered, and I won't tell him who you are unless you told me to, whatever..."  
  
"I'm not worried of being discovered, Alexander."  
  
"Then what is it?"  
  
"I saw him in Paris. During the riots." John looks away, the memory still sharp moments that seem still too close. "I saw Gilbert. I spoke with him."  
  
Alexander blanches, dropping his hand from around John's wrists. His expression is indiscernible, but it’s impossible to miss how he steps back.  
  
John doesn't want to talk about this. But Alexander is not moving from between him and the exit, so he breathes out heavy through his mouth and shrugs. "He thought he could save the city. It was too far gone. You should've seen it Alex, it wasn't like it was here. They were..." John shakes his head. "Barbary. Anarchy. Blood in the streets, chaos unlike anything we'd experienced here, a complete breakdown of decency and honor. And he tried but there is only so much a man can do,” he breaks off, his voice louder than he’d intended.  
  
“I told him to leave Paris. I told him to get out, John continues, voice quieter. Shaky. "Apparently it wasn't enough."  
  
"Enough so that he kept his head." Alexander rejoins, stepping closer and gripping John’s shoulder. "Why have you never brought this up then, John, did you think I would not have cared..."  
  
"I can't meet his son, Alexander." John cuts him off, pushing away. "I cannot face that boy, and hear about his father, and act as if it's nothing to me. Not when I'm the reason he's imprisoned."  
  
"Oh, stop it. Gilbert made his own decisions, all the ills of the world don't lay at your feet." Alexander snaps. "And if you did influence his flight, then you saved his life. They executed every noble, even those at a higher station than he was. That his wife and children evaded the guillotine when Madame de Noailles’ own family was not as fortunate is likely a testament to that as well." Alexander scoffed, striding across the room so there was space between them. "If you don't want to stay and meet him, then fine, that's whatever it is, but don't blame it on that, for pity's sake."  
  
John gapes at him. Alexander hasn't spoken to him like this since the initial meeting about the mills. But now he's glaring at John as if he's never seen someone so ridiculous. He continues his admonishment, shuffling papers to avoid meeting John’s gaze.  
  
"I feel like I have been more than accommodating to your preference to stay hidden away. That is your decision and I respect it. What is happening in France is beyond yours, or mine, or anyone's reach and there is hardly a reason to let something so outside our control dictate what we do or how we act."  
  
"And are you certain this is necessarily about my decisions, or is it also about yours?" John cuts back, face burning once again. Vulnerability was never Alexander’s strong suit, and his transparent accusation has left John defensive.  
  
Alexander’s head snaps sharply back towards him, stunned for a moment, and he just stares. When Alexander finally opens his mouth to protest, the sound of the front door opening stops him. They both stand a little taller, and stare at each other in silence as they wait to see the source.  
  
"Father?"  
  
John freezes and Alexander clears his throat. "I'm in my study, I will be out in just a moment. Please, go wait in the parlor and I'll be there shortly." He turns his attention back to John and drops his voice to a whisper. "They've returned sooner than I expected. You can always wait in here until I engage with them then slip out, and I can---"  
  
"No," John interrupts. "You're right. I should like to meet the young Lafayette." He shifts. "If the invitation is still extended."  
  
Alexander softens, though his posture is still twisted and tight. He sighs. "It always is, John."  
  
They move into the parlor, closer to the dining room. Alexander immediately greets the boys, sitting down adjacent from them without a care and motions for John to enter the room. John, however, is slightly dumbstruck.  
  
It is memory manifested. Phillip closely resembled Alexander, to be true, and Georges...the poor thing, the dramatic slope of his forehead would have made it impossible to claim anyone other than Gilbert as his father. And when Georges smiled and greeted the stranger in the parlor with a nod, John has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a soft sound. He is his father's son, John thinks, with all the innate charm to match.  
  
"Phillip, Georges, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Jack Ball, from Plainfield, Massachusetts. Jack is one of the head engineers at a grist mill we subsidized for a time. Jack," He nods in the direction of the boys.  
  
"It's a pleasure to make both of your acquaintances," John responds, offering a hand to both of them. Georges looks up and turns to Phillip.  
  
"Jusqu'où est-ce?" he asks the young man, whose brow creases.  
  
"Je ne sais pas où il est," Phillip answers in near perfect French, though he thinks on it for a moment or two before he answers.  
  
"Environ un jour de voyage," John follows up quickly, drawing surprised looks from both the younger men. If he has to guess, Alexander is probably grinning behind him. John smiles at them. "I spent some time in France when I was younger as well."  
  
Georges looks thrilled. Phillip, if not a bit shy, offers a genuine smile. "Georges has been kind enough to help improve my French, from so formal to more conversational," he explains.  
  
John flushes. "Oh, then my apologies, I didn't intend to interrupt a lesson, I just wasn't sure if you knew where Plainfield was!"  
  
"It's fine, John, don't be sorry," Alexander interrupts. "Boys, how about you run upstairs and wash up, supper will be served shortly." He frowns, looking around. "Wherever is your brother?"  
  
"Oh he ran up as soon as we got home. Something about the toy horse I bought him. The legs on it move, Father. I'm sure he'll want to bring it down to show you at supper."  
  
"Alright, alright then. Make sure he does." He slides a glance to the side. "We'll ring you in a bit, but if you can return before Emily has it brought supper out, please do." He looks over at John, waving the boys out of the room  as he continues. "I have another matter I'd like to discuss with you briefly, just to gather your thoughts, Mr. Ball.”  
  
John looks at him in amazement as the boys disappear up the stairs. Alexander only nods.  
  
"I know," Alexander murmurs, his voice laced with mirth as he stands. "Remind you of anyone?"  
  
"It's uncanny," John responds softly. "But unsurprising." He watches Phillip make some remark at the bend of the ascent, sees how Georges folds in half with laughter, grabbing onto the banister for support.  
  
"It's surreal."  
  
"You're telling me?" John whispers with a smile, sliding his gaze to Alexander, who has begun to move back to the refuge of his study. "You were never fortunate enough to spy yourself next to him." He looks back over at the boys, his expression reflective before he follows Alexander into his office once more. "It's like a vision through time."  
  
Alexander deflates once they are safely within the confines of the room. "I should apologize, for my coarseness moments ago." He looks up at John and appears very tired. "Perhaps you had a point."  
  
"Does he possess the same spirit?"  
  
"He does." Alexander goes to the liquor cabinet, until now untouched, and pulls out a small bottle of whiskey. He pours them both just a nip or two, just a little something to take the edge off. He hands it to John. “He’s a good young man.”  
  
His tone is pained, and he can tell Alexander is just imagining what their friend must be enduring---imprisoned, alone, away from his family and friends. Away from his eldest son.  
  
"It's not your fault either, Alexander,” John says gently, in an attempt at comfort. “Neither yours nor the General's."  
  
"Be that as it may," Alexander sighs. "I cannot but think, especially as Jefferson throws it in our face, that we have left a most beloved friend to rot." He rubs at his brow. “You must know, we have tried every channel, we have attempted rescue, we have done everything we could possibly attempt without further fracturing our….”  
  
“Alexander.” He grabs his friend’s hands. “I know.”  
  
It strikes John suddenly, that given Alexander’s position in Washington’s cabinet, that there are probably few, if any, he can confide in. Though he knows Alexander has close friends in Congress and in public, to display such distress, such sadness, such a thing could open him up to enemies or criticism if it were to be leaked. Alexander would have complained to no one. Now, when he looks up at John, he’s obviously tired, and regretful, and defeated.  
  
“You’ve done everything you can,” John says, squeezing his arm. “Now come. The boys will be hungry.”  
  


* * *

  
The dinner is uneventful, but it allows John the opportunity to see his friend in a completely different light. For the most part, Alexander speaks to Phillip and George as if they are adults,, imparting gentle wisdom if it seems to be needed. John is impressed at his proficiency in handling the young men. Alexander is adept at asking them questions and following up in a way that leaves the conversation open to their own thoughts, a way to make them feel as if they are contributing and to make clear he values their opinions, but not in a way that is patronizing. When he exchanges a glance and a half smile with John as the boys discuss amongst themselves, John understands his methods to be deliberate.  
  
But it’s Alexander’s behavior with his youngest that charms John the most. John Church is contained, very polite and accommodating, but it is obvious the boy simmers below the surface.Even at 5, he seems to have a spark of what Alexander has always held.  
  
The boy is shy of John at first, darting glances at him warily, but John eases him to conversation easily enough, asking questions about his new wooden horse, if he has any others, if it his now his favorite. By the end of it, the boy is answering more easily, talking about his mother, and his other brothers and older sister, and how he's not little any longer.  
  
What John finds the most endearing is the way Alexander is with the youngest at the table. John Church is as well behaved as one would expect a five year old to be, and Alexander spends much of the meal telling him little jokes while ensuring the boy behaves himself. There is a sense of loss as well, an ache he feels in his chest, as it becomes again all too apparent how much they've both grown older, and how much they've missed. Alexander catches him watching and offers a soft, wan smile; the past few years of their reconnection has been amazing, but Alexander’s expression makes it clear John is not alone in realizing how much they have lost.  
  
At the end of the dinner, Emily ushers John Church upstairs to be washed and put to bed, and those remaining---he, Alexander and the young men---settle in for some brandy and dessert while they discuss more of the goings-on of the world.  
  
Finally, the boys go to bed, and John leaves, with only the squeeze of a hand, a smile and the promise that he and Alexander will see each soon, and many more times, before the end of the summer.  
  


* * *

  
John maintains his promise to himself that he and Alexander won’t couple in the home he shares with his wife. But when they are in the privacy of  John’s apartment, they move as they once did when they were young men, around and about as if two pieces of a whole. Alexander stops by a few times a week, sometimes for only an hour or so, or sometimes to laze away an afternoon as he rants about something or other Thomas Jefferson has done. This is when he tells John, warning that he must keep it to himself, that discretion is of the utmost importance, that Thomas Jefferson is resigning his post as Secretary of State.  
  
“So...that is a good thing, yes?”  
  
Alexander snorts. “It is, and it isn't.” He shifts where he lies, which is right now next to John in bed, half a sheet covering him though he is mostly fully clothed. “Jefferson has woven a tale of retiring to his farm in peace and solitude, an end to which the General envies, but I don't believe that to be his true design.”  
  
John raises a brow, a silent question. Alexander half-growls.  
  
“I think he’ll be running for President shortly.”  
  
“Well, that shouldn't worry you any. He’ll never defeat Washington.”  
  
To this, Alexander groans, pushing himself so he’s sitting up, and runs a hand over his face. He sighs deeply, then leans back against the headboard, looking down at John.  
  
“His Excellency is resigning next year, John. You mustn't tell anyone.”  
  
John’s eyes widen. “Do you speak true?”  
  
Of course Washington could not be in charge forever, but the real moment coming upon them struck John cold. Though it had been years since he’d spoken to the man, there was no one else he trusted the care of the nation to than the General---hell, John himself had risked a bullet just in the name of the man’s honor!  
  
Alexander nods miserably in response. “I've tried to sway him otherwise, but he’s determined to live out his days at his home, in peace. Which, of course, he’s more than earned.” He scratches absentmindedly at his head.”I just don't trust anyone else to do it.”  
  
“I can't even imagine someone else.”  
  
“Well, we’d better prepare. He’s asked me to help draft a farewell address, so that will be my next undertaking after this whole Jay Treaty mess is resolved,” Alexander sighs.  
  
“Well, leave it where it needs to be and worry on it later,” John advises.  
  
It more or less carries on the same for the next few weeks. June carries into July, which then shortly comes to August. John has planned to return in the middle of the month, but when a letter comes from Plainfield calling him home for an emergency, he knows he has no other choice.  
  
He shows up on Alexander's stoop, hat in hand, letter heavy in his pocket. He raps at the door a few times before Emily appears to let him in and Alexander meets him in the foyer, confusion alighting his face.  
  
“Whatever are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting…”  
  
"Alexander, I'm so sorry, but I have to leave. I was on my way out of town but I wanted to stop and say goodbye."  
  
Alexander's brow furrows, and he doesn't even try to keep the disappointment from his face. "I thought you were supposed to be here for another 2 weeks."  
  
John is already nodding. "I was but..." He frowns. "I just received a letter from home, about Thomas. Apparently he's collapsed and taken ill with some sort of fit. The doctor is unsure of how long he will last."  
  
Alexander is already shaking his head. "Of course. Of course, you must go." He sighs. "I suppose we will see each other again soon enough. You'll write and let me know how he fares? If you need any help?"  
  
"Of course," John nods. "I'm so sorry Alexander."  
  
"Whatever for? I’m sorry to even hear it. I do hope he recovers. Please pass on my well wishes to him."  
  
"Before I left, I wanted to tell you," John begins, glancing around. "I've begun the process of purchasing the apartment here. For good."  
  
Alexander's eyes grew wide. " You're going to move to the city?"  
  
At that John shakes his head. "Well, no. But. I want to visit more often. And I can rent it out by the month when I'm not able to be here. It's a nice place, and easily affordable with what I've saved. It only makes sense, if I want to visit. And it will be easier, too."  
  
Alexander half laughs and takes his hand. "Well then. It will be nice to have you visit here, hopefully more often. And I will take what I can get."

* * *

Thomas is still alive when John arrives back at the mill, but he has been ordered on bed rest and fades in and out of consciousness. He lacks the strength  to feed himself the broth that the maid Edward has hired on for his care has made. He lingers for a few weeks before another fit hits him, and he dies in his sleep.  
  
John finds it to be a stunning loss.  
  
Obviously, he's quite familiar with losing people, but he supposed he'd never considered that one of these men, who had put battle behind, who were living quiet, easy lives. He'd expected it to last longer.  
  
"He was of an age, Jack," Jasper comments softly when they put him in the ground. "No one lives forever."  
  
He knows Jasper means well, but it doesn't hit its mark and he walks away without a response, irritated, and unsure of exactly how he feels. Thomas was probably the man he was least close to, but it still stings, especially to see the way it has affected Edward, Jasper, and Sam, who's left his pregnant wife behind in the city to come and pay his respects.  
  
He doesn't see Alexander that fall or over the holidays.. There were many eager to visit with Georges, the son of the honored and valiant Marquis, and so Alexander often tried to travel with the boy. The rest of his time was prioritized for his family.  John felt like he should be angry but he couldn't bring himself to it. They would see each other soon, after all; John had already arranged to visit the city in the spring.  
  
Alexander was better suited for holiday parties and balls anyway. John much preferred the quiet of Plainfield; there was something enchanting about how the lazy way winter snow made everything quiet. Edward had traveled to Boston for the month to stay for a visit with Sam and Kate and their newborn son, leaving John and Jasper to watch over the mill in his stead.  
  
On the eve of the New Year, they have dinner and celebrate with acquaintances at their regular, nearby tavern, but leave before the clock strikes midnight. It's customary for a raucous celebration to take place, and John points out that homemade fireworks may be involved, so they hurry back home about half past 11. Though they have had more than enough, and their minds are sufficiently muddled from the night’s festivities, Jasper pours them both a generous helping of whiskey. They  sit on the floor in the main room, in front of the fire, and John deals them both in for a game of cards.  
  
The whiskey is smooth. It had been a special bottle that had cost more than what they often purchased and they had turned their normal game of poker into a sort of drinking game. It adds to the heat of the fire, and soon both men are in only their breeches and undershirts, with blankets draped over their shoulders like capes.  
  
They’re laughing. John’s not sure exactly what at, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with one of the men at the tavern who had gotten piss drunk and was attempting-rather unsuccessfully-to woo one of the tavern maids for a good night kiss.  
  
“Ah, he’s better off,” Jasper says at the end of a chuckle, his eyes bright with tears from the laughter. “Women are nothing but trouble.”  
  
John laughs back, taking another sip of the whiskey with a waggle of his brow. “Isn’t that the truth of it? Never much seemed very worth it to me.”  
  
Jasper doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he offers a loopy grin, looking at John in a different sort of way. John can't bring himself to move; he's not sure why, because he feels like he should change the subject, or turn away, but his mind is muddled with the spirits of the evening and he fiddles with the cards in his hand instead.  
  
The corner of Jasper's mouth quirks and he leans forward, hands pressed against the wooden floorboards. When John doesn’t back away, he presses on and softly, hesitantly, captures John's lips in a kiss.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jusqu'où est-ce? = How far is that from here?  
> Je ne sais pas où il est = I don't know where it is  
> Environ un jour de voyage = About a day's journey
> 
> The French was done via google translate, so if it's a bit off, that's why.
> 
> The Jay treaty stuff happened in 1795 into early 96, fun tidbit and mainly why I included it: the Jay Treaty stuff is when Hamilton basically challenged all of the Dem Republicans to duel him, and it's a hilarious story and I just had include that bit as an homage. And Georges did stay with the Hamilton’s for a few months before GWash was like, fuck it, get him to Mount Vernon so.
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://cattlaydee.tumblr.com) if you ever wanted to yell at me


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M ALIVE. I know i continuously say it will be updated soon. my apologies for the time it's taken. The good news is the next chapter is like....4 paragraphs away from being done and it's like 6K words already so it shouldn't be long. I really appreciate all of you who keep reading despite it. We are getting close to...something, happening, so I hope you like where this is going. Thank you again.

_Soft_ , is what John's mind registers first. Alexander's kisses have been soft before, but this is different; this lacks his hunger, the insistence that presses for more, an eagerness that can't be faked. No, this kiss is different, and it tastes different, and somewhere in John's foggy mind he wonders, how or why Alexander's kiss has changed, why is it now slow and gentle and hesitant?

A touch to his hand on the wood floor brings John back to himself, clearing his whiskey addled mind. His eyes shoot open and he jerks away from the contact, scrambling backward while leaving Jasper confused and off balance. John knows what's happened, but he doesn't understand; is this only a spirits infused moment, one they will never speak of again, or is it more than that? He thinks of the past year or so, thinks of Jasper's initial coolness towards Alexander, thinks of the moments they have been alone, just the two of them and their talks. He gapes at Jasper, and wonders how he missed it, but then realizes that he's not as surprised as he wishes he was.

They stare at each other with wide gazes, Jasper's face flush in the light of the fire, his mouth hanging open as he absorbs John's reaction and takes in his alarmed expression. Jasper is still for a few moments and then all of a sudden---

**Panic.**

He leaps to his feet, hands out in an imploring gesture. John slowly follows to stand as Jasper begins to sputter, and beg, and move toward him frantically.

"Jack, I'm sorry!" Jasper is babbling, barely coherent, shaking his head and pulling at his hair; his eyes are pressed shut as if trying to undo the action. "I didn't...Jack, I thought....please don't tell Edward, please don't tell him..."

Physical love between two men is a crime, after all, punishable by hanging. What Jasper has initiated could be considered an assault, and John could have him named even though nothing had gone further than the kiss--- _sodomite_. John shakes his head to clear his other concerns and closes the gap.

"Jasp, Jasper, calm down. Calm down! You're fine, it's fine, you're not..."

John hesitates; if he does this, he's susceptible to an attack later, should they fall out over it. But Jasper is nearing tears, more vulnerable or open than John's ever encountered him, and so he grabs him by the wrists and stills him. Slowly, while making sure that Jasper is looking straight at him, he gently continues. "You're not wrong."

Jasper stops his babbling, but his chest still rises and falls, frantic. It takes him a few moments to calm down completely, and it's only then that he steps back away from John, and the panic leaves his expression, though it is replaced by something that pains John even more---hurt.

"Oh. So..." He looks away from John, pulls his wrists from his grasp. "Alright then."

"Jasper..."

"No, no, it's alright, I understand." Jasper turns half away from him, not meeting his gaze.

"It's not that I don't---" John tries again, but Jasper squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head.

"Please, don't." Jasper holds a hand up and sighs. "It was really nothing. Only some holiday fun." He chances a half smile at him, but it’s painfully false. "I simply wish to be certain you won't say anything to anyone."

"Of course I wouldn't." John assures softly. "Jasper, I do think we should..."

"I really prefer we don't." He snaps in return, then abruptly quiets. "I apologize, I don’t mean to be curt but..." There's the smile again, almost a leer, an attempt to quickly dismiss the unpleasantness but John's not so sure he wants to drop this.

"We’ve been friends a long time now, Jack. And there’s still so much about you that’s a mystery." Jasper continues. "So unless you want to start talking about what it really is...just don't, alright?" He holds John's eye-line. "Please don't play me for a fool."

It's there, hanging in between them. _He knows_ , John thinks, and it tightens his guts so he can hardly breathe. Jasper doesn't break his gaze.

John does, after a few moments. He can't yet. He's not ready to talk about...any of it, with anyone else. Right now, it lives in the world he and Alexander have built together and the idea of letting anyone else see it makes him feel anxious, as if it would only put a limit to it. No, he's not ready for that yet.

"That's what I thought." Jasper says. And he's not angry, or bitter, but maybe only a little disappointed. "I know I've said it before. And we've all got a right to our secrets. And I respect it. And I hope that you know you can trust me with those. I hope that...I've been good enough a friend to you that you would.” He shakes his head. “Alls I’m saying is that, if you ever needed someone to help bear some of it, I’d be happy to help you.” 

John remembers the offer from a year or so before, though now the assurance that Jasper obviously knows his secret changes it. He’s surprised to feel a bit of an ache, the kind that manifests when there's something you want but can’t quite bring yourself to follow through. He mentally shakes it away and smiles. “It’s not so secret, but I...I will, keep it in mind. I’m just not there yet, Jasp.”

“It’s fair.” Jasper responds simply with a shrug and a sigh. “I'm retiring for the night. Thank you for a lovely evening, Jack."

John finds his voice. "You too, Jasp."

He watches Jasper retreat into the dark, then quickly pours himself another glass of whiskey. The fireplace is still lit, though the flames have grown smaller and are on their way out. A candle flickers on the counter where the bottle of drink sits, the small bit of amber liquid still left sparkling in it's light. John raises his glass to his lips, downing what he's given himself and pours the rest in.

He snuffs out the light, and goes to settle in front of the dying flames. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and leans against their sofa, staring into the flames until they are embers, and the whiskey is long gone.

* * *

It takes time before things are anything like they were before. Jasper avoids him for the first few weeks of the year---he rises before John, and comes back to the cabin either before or after he knows he will be around. If they pass by one another, he will offer a quiet grunt or a nod of the head before retiring to his room. John can't tell if it's because he's angry or embarrassed. He gives Jasper space and doesn't press it, and by the time the thaw comes towards the end of March, they are at least on speaking terms.

John heads back to the city around that time. He's still exchanging letters with Alexander, who has been relieved of his position as Secretary of the Treasury as John Adams prepares to take the oath of office. He cannot get there until April, and decides to stay a few weeks for a break. The work at the mill has become mundane enough---Edward spends much of his time in Boston and they've established an agreement that two of the younger boys from those mills will come apprentice for the summer, so Jasper volunteers to watch over a short visit, just to show them around before they come up full time in June. He'll move into the mill, he tells John, and the boys can stay in their cabin for the weekend while he shows them the basics. He tells John, in an abrupt, short tone that they will figure out what he wants to do when he returns.

The first few days in the city he is alone. He visits the bank and meets with an investor to discuss his account in the years since Alexander opened it for him. It's done well despite industrial setbacks, and the man happily tells him that, barring any sort of catastrophe, the profits should continue to rise and he would have no trouble maintaining the life he's built for himself.

He spends the other days at the library, or down by the wharves. He dines at Fraunces Tavern and he spends most of his nights reading a book, and enjoys the change of scenery. Plainfield is so far inland, and while creeks and lakes are nice, there is nothing that compares to the breeze of the sea coming off the harbor in the sunshine. He spends his afternoons on the common, resting on blankets and reading at his leisure.

Alexander visits when he can. It's often a few times a week, sometimes for an hour or so, and sometimes for a half a day. John has given him a key, and it's been more than once or twice that he's swept in to find Alexander in his bed or at his desk, a subject already awaiting to be visited, and then it goes from there, not stopping until he departs and lets John to his rest.

It is one such afternoon when Alexander arrives. John is sitting upright against the headboard reading a book on the bed when Alexander closes the door behind him with a heavy, exaggerated sigh. He slides in next to John on top of the coverlet, fully clothed.

"Can I just..." Alexander sighs, relaxing back against the pillow as he nudges closer to John. "I just want to rest. For a moment."

"Always, my dear." John smiles fondly down at Alexander, whose eyes are closed in respite. "What troubles you?"

Alexander snorts, but he doesn't move otherwise. "What doesn't trouble me?" He rubs at his face and then rolls onto his side to face John. "You would think that being relieved of my duties as Secretary would be time for things to become less manic, but instead..." He shakes his head. "Just the law firm is busier than I had anticipated. James Monroe and Aaron Burr have descended upon me as well, for reasons completely unbeknownst to me, and I'm concerned of their true intentions. They accuse me of embezzling federal funds. Me!" He looks as John in astonishment.

"That's quite the accusation."

"It is! And so..." He makes a frustrated noise, waving his hand as he's left without a description.

"If it has no merit, perhaps you should leave it alone."  

Alexander growls, and flops back onto his back. "That's just what Eliza said." He mutters softly, turning his head towards the opposite wall. "Do you think I would do such a thing?"

"Of course not." Because he doesn't. Alexander is nothing if not prudent. Embezzlement was not just an illegal act of his office, but would also tarnish the work he he’d done long after he’d served a sentence for it. It had the potential to cancel out all the good he’d done as a self avowed patriot to the nation, and tarnish others closely connected to him---Washington namely---as well.

In John’s opinion, Alexander's allegiance to this country was one of the more unquestionable things about him, if even to a fault. How many long hours had he worked, how many times had he forgone time with family or friends, or had he told John of how he worked himself exhausted to meet the impracticable demands of a Congress determined to see him fail? If that were not enough, the comments about his legitimacy as a citizen had always made Alexander defensive and prickly and if anything, John considers, he has overcompensated more often than not for it. John understood the instinct to react and lash out in a fierce self defense, but as he had witnessed it and watched him fail time and time again, he often wonder if it would be wiser for Alexander to not acknowledge the slurs and suggestions at all, lest he cast some credence toward them.

"Let's be done speaking about such things." Alexander deviates, and flips back over. "I’ve been inconsolably rude by not asking about your business in Plainfield. How is the milling work going? What of Sam's family, of Edward and Jasper?"

The mention of Jasper's name freezes John, and he looks down at his book, averting his eyes. He places the ribbon to hold it's place before closing it and looking back up. "They are...well. Sam has welcomed a son. So Edward is visiting them this spring. Jasper stayed behind to tend to the mill. We are in negotiations to bring on two more men to help with the maintenance---men who've had experience in Sam's father in law's mills."

"That sounds promising."

John makes a soft noise of agreement. "It will do well, to bring on fresh blood, but I fear there's not much else we can do in the name of expansion." His face twists in concern. "I think Sam's father in law is making a play for the land, if I'm honest."

Alexander frowns and pushes himself further upright. "Are you concerned for your position there?"

John laughs softly. "No, no, not at all. I just think Thomas' passing has taken it's toll on Edward and I worry for him." He shrugs, throwing the book to the floor and turning toward Alexander, his face still an inch or so above him. "I think I'll be fine regardless. They'd either keep me on or buy me out. And your investor friend has told me the accounts you helped me set up are in quite good shape."

"Oh, well that's good to hear." Alexander replies with a wink, and John rolls his eyes. Anything to allow Alexander a claim he'd told someone so. John pinches his side in retribution, and laughs as Alexander jumps and makes an aghast sort of noise before turning to pounce on John, pinning him to the mattress and planting a kiss on his mouth.

"We're far too old for boyish games, my dear." Alexander warns with a grin.

John raises his brows and licks his lips. "Are we?"

It's routine by now, but no less exciting and fun. He brings Alexander off with his hands and Alexander returns the favor with his mouth and nimble fingers. By the time he heaves himself back up to the pillow and onto John's chest, breathing heavily with the effort of it all, he flings an arm behind his head and laughs. Both are near naked, though Alexander still sports his linen shift top, and John fingers at it's hem, trying to hint that he desires it's removal.

"I'm soft." Alexander demures, batting John's hand away. "Age has not been as kind to me as you."

"Oh stop," John playfully admonishes, but he let's it alone for now. Instead, once they've lolled around enough, he pulls himself from the bed to gather a platter of cheese and fruit, and two mugs of ale, passing one to Alexander before slides back to sit next to him. Alexander, in his brief absence, has grabbed an old copy of Gulliver's Travel's by his bedside and is flipping through it idly.

“You need more books,” He comments with a sideways smile. “Do you find your time here pleasant, John?”

It was an odd query. What would he be doing in the city if he did not find it worthwhile otherwise? He voices the thought plainly and Alexander makes a snuffly, dismissive noise as he discards the book and sits up.

“I didn’t say worthwhile, I said pleasant.” Alexander reiterates. “You’ve spent the better part of the past week mostly alone in your quarters, save for when I’ve been able to steal away.”

“I enjoy time to myself. It’s not much different than how I’d be spending my time otherwise.” John shrugs. “So yes, I suppose I do find it rather pleasant.”

“You suppose?”   
John frowns. What does he want John to say? 

“Come over for dinner this week,” Alexander offers suddenly, his expression open and wanting. “I know I’ve only mentioned it in passing but...come meet the rest of my family. Come meet Eliza.”

John can only blink at him. It’s not the first time he’s been so outrageous. One would think he’d at least wait a few hours after they’d been intimate to bring up such a thing. But then he remembers how Alexander has a tendency to become unbent in the aftermath of their exertions; how his lashes flutter, how he has a tendency to be more affectionate, and John supposes that perhaps the man is never more vulnerable than in it’s wake. Perhaps that’s why some of his more ridiculous decisions are tied to the activity.

“She knows I’ve a friend in the milling industry I still meet with.” Alexander persists. “She wants to meet you. I think she could develop...a true friendship for you.”

John can’t help but laugh. “If you think your wife would ever be alright with you loving another, especially another man…”

“I didn’t say _that_.” Alexander follows quickly. “But. She understands the values of close friendship…”

“Friendship?!” John crosses his arms, unable to keep the astonished look from his face. “Alexander, you just brought me off with your mouth, I don’t know if that’s the type of friendship she would appreciate.”

“She...doesn’t need to know that.”

“You want me to break bread across the table from a woman when I’m buggering her husband?”

“Well, we haven’t done _that_ in quite a while…”

John sighs, shaking his head. “Alexander.”

“Fine. Fine. You’re probably right.” Alexander replies, resigned. The disappointment is evident on his features.

John understands why Alexander wants them to meet. Understands how exhausting it is to keep coming up with excuses to steal away for meetings outside of usual business hours. A dinner would be a great way to see each other and spend time together and…

To be welcomed into that part of Alexander’s life. Not for the first time in many weeks does the idea of such an intersection make John’s stomach clench.

He’s being ridiculous. He knows, to an extent, he’s being selfish and cowardly and ridiculous.

It doesn’t change that he’s just not ready for it. Yet.

“I’m sorry.” John says softly. “It’s just strange for me. I’ll give it more thought though. This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned meeting her. I know it’s important to you.”

“I just...I think you both could be good friends, is all.” Alexander offers with a shrug. It’s not the first time he’s asserted such a claim but John finds it dubious himself. Outside of the obvious---who wants to be friends with their lover’s wife?----he knows nothing of her, and assumes she will be just as silly as the other ladies of stature he’d met when he was younger.

“Are you going to be alright?” John asks suddenly, the words coming as a surprise even to him. He doesn’t know if it’s the way Alexander’s voice sounds a little far away as he speaks, or the way he seems tired, the way he came into the room in the first place. They’re both older now. It’s to be expected that they grow tired easy, with old bones and strained muscles. Alexander only answers the question with a tired smile, and grabs at John’s hand where it rests on his crossed forearm, bringing the knuckles to his lips for a tired kiss.

“I’m always alright.” Alexander presses John’s hand to his cheek and closes his eyes with a sigh. “I don’t mean to keep bringing it up. With everything happening, I suppose I’m just trying to keep the good parts together soundly.”

John frowns. “Surely your troubles at work are not that serious?”

Alexander huffs. “Well, embezzlement is a lofty accusation. But I assure you, there’s no truth to it.” He bites his lip. “I have the beginnings of a strategy to combat it. I believe that it will resolve the situation quite neatly.” He slid a look at John. “Do you think me wise, John? Level headed?”

John bites his lips to keep from laughing, but he cannot keep the smile away. "I do, Alexander. You are easily one of the most pragmatic men i've ever known."

He stays for a few weeks. Alexander visits every few days. Sometimes he’s jovial and light, but as it gets closer to May, he grows distant and irritable. By the time John leaves, with a kiss and a reassurance that he believes in Alexander's good judgement, that he’s sure everything will work out just fine, he’s almost relieved to be on the way home.

He doesn't tell Alexander about Jasper, of the kiss.

It's behind him, John tells himself. And there’s no sense in stirring the pot over nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to get this out so I haven't beta'd it---apologies if I missed something glaring. I do hope you all enjoyed. The next chapter is set to be...eventful.
> 
> oh and I'm on [tumblr](http://cattlaydee.tumblr.com) and I'm always up for a chat. say hi!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here. we. go.

**July 1797**

It's barely the early afternoon, and the sun now sits just prior to it's peak, the thick heat already warning of a wretched day. John has been up early doing some routine maintenance to the outside of the mill so he can complete it before the weather is unbearable, hoping to possibly take some time to himself for a dip once the day reaches its apex. His linen shirt clings to him and he muses that it's probably a good time for a washing anyways; he drops his chin to his chest and sniffs, wincing as the result of the morning's work offends even himself.

He walks into the cabin and his ears prick to the sound of Jasper in his room shuffling around. He surveys their common area, looking for a pile of parchment as he picks up as rag and wipes at himself. He tosses the cloth over his shoulder and pours himself some water from a pitcher on the table where they usually eat and finds a small pile of parchment on a card table near the sofa.

Jasper has, as of late, been receiving an increase of correspondence from his sister in Georgia; though he's not asked, John suspects perhaps his parents illness has become more serious. Edward has mentioned, in passing, that part of Jasper's earnings go to them. Because of it Jasper is now the one who fetches the post and, on Monday mornings, brings back the newspaper for that week. He finds the pile of parchment on the table, looking through it and feeling a soft pang when he sees none of the familiar scrawl, though it's only been a week or so since his last letter to Alexander. He doesn't see the newspaper either.

Odd.

"Jasp!" He hollers softly toward the rooms. He hears the bedroom door creak and close, hears the approach of steps. Jasper appears at the mouth of the hall and nods a welcome, continuing on to the pitcher from which he pours himself a glass as well. He turns and leans against the table, looking at John expectantly.

"You get that axle repaired?"

John makes a noise of assent, sipping at his water. "You grab the paper? If you were finished with it, I was going to take some food down by the river and wash up before relaxing in the shade for a read." He offers a friendly smile. "You're welcome to join if you'd like."

Something passes in Jasper's expression before he can stop it, something like a flush but also...a secret? Jasper averts his eyes, clears his throat as he looks away. "I, uh...I did, grab it, but I...I got water all over it. Ink ran and everything, had to toss it. You could probably go into town and grab another, if you'd like."

It's really not that important to John, who shakes his head. "Maybe tomorrow. I'll grab a book instead. You sure you don't want to come?"

Jasper shakes a head back. "No, eh...no. I need to write a letter to my sister and take care of a few things, but I'll be up for supper with Edward just before dusk."

“I’ll probably head there then as well.”

John heads down to the water with a copy of _“Tom Jones”_ and a canteen of fresh water, a bar of soap and a spare bit of linen to dry with after he bathes. He lays about for a bit to read, waiting for the heat to abate some---it does nothing to bathe at the height of the afternoon if he will just sweat it out again---but he eventually strips to his skin and dives in. He takes his time, floating on his back as he stares up at the blue sky between the branches and leaves, letting his breath even out, letting his sore muscles soak and creaky joints loosen in the rivers easy buoyancy. He eventually climbs out and enjoys the peace and quiet until the sun begins its descent behind the bluff and realizes by the time he returns to the millhouse, it will be about supper time.

Mealtimes are a somber affair now. Only a year prior, they'd had four---Edward insisted on an empty mug at the end of the table for the “other boys”, while Jasper and John and himself make do.

They dine in quiet. John relays the adjustments he’d made in the morning and Edward nods, and then asks them if they’re ready for the boys who will be visiting again from Boston. They will be staying in the millhouse, primarily to help out Edward as well as be directly on hand if anything goes awry. Edward seems tired as he mentions another visit to Boston to see Sam again that fall, and John thinks once more that he could see the mill being turned over to someone else within the next few years.

They help Edward clean up, and he heads shortly to sleep for the night, so John and Jasper retire to the cabin they share as well. They stay up, intent on playing a quick game of chess in front of the fire and hedging soft bets. When John eventually takes Jasper’s Queen, Jasper laughs and claims that somehow, John has swindled him, but the accusation is playful. As they rise, Jasper excuses himself to visit the water closet out back but tells John, rather absentmindedly, that he can collect his winnings from the dresser just inside his room.

It’s a ritual really; it’s not always chess, but it’s always the same dollar Continental they exchange back and forth from the war, not even worth the paper it’s printed on. Jasper goes out the back and John shuffles to the room, knowing full well where the paper bill will be kept, and sees it poking out beneath the piles of mail from this morning and---

John stops. _Well. That’s odd,_ he thinks.

It’s the weekly paper, but it’s new, folded and shoved underneath a book; he recognizes the corner that peaks out. He frowns as he slides it out from under and spies the date which affirms that it is this week's copy of the post.

The copy that Jasper had quite clearly told him had been accidentally destroyed earlier in the day.

 _Odd_ , he thinks again, but perhaps Jasper had wanted to keep it for himself. Or maybe he’d been confused---maybe another copy, that he thought was this one was instead damaged.

He doesn’t worry on it too much. Just folds the paper under his arm and heads out of the room with the dollar piece pinched between his fingers to find Jasper near the basin of the kitchen pouring them a nightcap. John pockets his winnings and leans back against the wooden table, accepting the whiskey before he begins to open the paper. Jasper’s eyes go wide.

"Jack, don't."

The first thing he thinks, is how strange it is that Jasper looks alarmed. How his attitude shifts, how this obviously is not some simple misunderstanding. He sets the drink down, brows furrowing now as some gnawing feeling gathers in his gut and he dodges away as Jasper steps towards him, unfolding the paper and really looking at it now.

And there, on the front page, is a teasing advert for a pamphlet by Alexander Hamilton for order, with a peek deeper within the paper’s pages to tease public opinion, and his stomach churns.

_"The charge against me is a connection with one James Reynolds, for purposes of improper speculation. My real crime is an amorous connection with his wife, for a considerable time, with his knowing consent..."_

He looks up at Jasper, who is watching him carefully, his arms crossed in front of him. John's not sure what to say. When Jasper moves towards him, John steps back, not taking his eyes from the page.

_"I had frequent meetings with her, most of them at my own house...."_

His mouth has gone dry and he swallows to keep his stomach from emptying in the middle of their sitting room. He looks up at Jasper, his gaze narrowing.

"Why...would you attempt keep this from me?"

As if he were never going to see it. Why delay the inevitable? Why hide it?

There's no jealousy in the way that Jasper is watching him. No, it's much much worse, because instead of malice or shame, John only feels pitied.

"I....Jack, I just didn't think..."

"You lied to me about it. You told me this had been destroyed." John walks closer to him, pressing it to his own chest so the headline can be seen. "You intentionally tried to keep me from seeing it, something I was bound to eventually discover regardless. Why?"

Jasper's eyes dart back and forth, examining him before sighing and scratching at the back of his head. "I would not see you hurt." He whispers softly. "I've no other excuse for it."

John says nothing. Instead, without breaking eye contact, he grabs for the glass Jasper has poured and spins away as he tucks the paper back under his arm. He storms to his room, closing the door solidly behind him.

He settles into bed, thankful that it is late enough for this to not seem too unusual, although he knows Jasper is perfectly aware of why he retreats. He lights another candle, the one burning in his lamp almost at it’s end, and pulls it close to his bed where he lies down. He curls under his quilt and pulls the newspaper to him as he lets his eyes rove, unable to leave it alone.

He reads it over and over again, parts especially that strike him the most. He tries to make sense of the words. An affair conducted before their reunion. With a woman of no stature, no standard, although there was a hint that he may have enjoyed her company.

_My sensibility, perhaps my vanity, admitted the possibility of a real fondness; and led me to adopt the plan of a gradual discontinuance rather than of a sudden interruption, as least calculated to give pain, if a real partiality existed._

Was this all it was to be? John thought with a wrench of his heart.

**_Perhaps my vanity_ **

In the darkest of times, of course, in those moments when Alexander doubted himself most, he would need reassurance of genius, of his prowess, of his accomplishments. As he skims the publication, he finds that the affair with the Reynolds woman had ended just months before theirs had begun again, only a month or so before Alexander had discovered him at the mill.

And so is that all he has been? The thought is distressing but one he cannot help but entertain. They did, after all, often talk about his writing and his work, he did often seek of John's approval. Had he just become another warm body to hold in the man's most uncertain of times? Were there others, other than his wife, that he welcomed to his bed during their long stints apart?

 _"She has been entrusted with many secrets, state and otherwise, I promise you."_ Alexander had insisted of his maidservant, the day that John had visited the Grange. At the thought, John's mouth went dry. **_And otherwise_**. Hie felt his face heat up and he rubbed at his eyes to find them wet.

The realization of it all had his gut feel as if he were sinking at an awfully fast pace. Alexander was, after all, still married, would remain so, and what had he expected, what _could he_ have expected!

He presses his face against the pillow and crumples the paper close. How _foolish_ he'd been. How reckless and stupid. Alexander may have felt something for him, but it was to serve his own purposes than to serve anything between them. He was _married_. And he had a whole other life, as much as John had wanted to pretend it didn't exist.

He’s been clinging to a ghost. To something that was long dead, if even it had ever been real.

Yorktown comes to him unbidden. The last time before Combahee they’d spent together. He’d come up from another campaign in South Carolina and Alexander had come South from New York, after being called back with a commission to command.

The General had assigned them lodging to share and then dismissed them for the afternoon. Told them there wasn’t much to be done until the help arrived, and that they would hopefully be there shortly. The French, was what he meant. The two young men had smiled at that. Lafayette would join them soon.

They’d walked for a bit, to a spot near the water that wasn’t quite sand, but where long seagrass still grew, where the sea air still swept in from off the surf. They’d settled, their eyes on the horizon, trying to discern the pinprick of white sails against blue from clouds, one trying to best the other to call the sighting first.

It’d been awkward at first. Alexander’s nuptials went unmentioned but was certainly on their minds. Though they could revel in this now, they knew what was shortly to come----a battle that was likely to end the war. And if they were to survive?

Well. Alexander would go home to his _wife_.

And John?

John hadn’t really given it much thought. But then time had clawed outward from inside of him, and every moment passing forced him to consider possible courses of action, each less palatable than the last.

His own wife and child. Civil service. Taking over at Mepkin.

He wanted to keep fighting, for _all_ to be free; could the South be swayed? It’s all he wanted to do.

They’d sat quietly. Alexander had taken John’s hand from the soft dirt, and John had leaned back against him and closed his eyes and breathed in the air, and just focused on what it felt like to feel Alexander’s chest rise and fall. Felt it as Alexander wrapped his arm around John to pull him close and pressed their enclosed hands to his chest there and leaned down against John’s head. And he knew that Alexander was thinking the same things.

_What comes next?_

When he'd opened his eyes, neither of them spoke a word; it was just blue water on blue sky, stretching forever, the sea grass blowing gently as it towered above them…

It felt like they were alone at the end of the world. A little piece of Elysium, all their own.

He hadn’t felt that at peace since, he realizes now, the abominable piece of writing clenched in his hand. And this exercise in reclaiming something they’d both left behind too long ago...

He realizes, quite suddenly, that this love, this bond, whatever _this thing_ was that was between them that he kept a tenuous hold of, was a burden he could no longer bear.

If Jasper had heard his distress, he says nothing the next morning, nor any thereafter. In fact, no one really even mentions the salacious pamphlet outside of those at the tavern during the few days a week they visit, and even then, John just smirks along with those laughing about it and doesn't give away much more. Jasper pretends like he doesn't even hear it.

Weeks pass into August. John returns from an afternoon of work to their cabin so that he can take some food, some water, perhaps a nap, and stops in his tracks once he enters. Alexander is there, in their common room on the sofa, sitting across from Jasper who rests in their sole armchair. Both look up from their tea when the door shuts behind him.

Alexander is on his feet quick. He looks eager, maybe just short of desperate, and it seems to John that Alexander forgets Jasper is in the room.

Jasper, whose gaze flits between the two once or twice before it settles on John, prepared to usher Alexander out at the first sign of distress.

John exhibits none.

"Alexander." He greets evenly, calmly. He looks over at Jasper, nods slightly to indicate that he'll be alright and Jasper clears his throat, rising as well from where he sits.

"I have to...go. Talk. To Edward." He shrugs, gives up pretending, and slides past John without another word, out of the cabin, letting the door close behind him.

They're alone.

"I suppose I probably should've sent a note." Alexander begins with an attempt at levity, a soft half smile on his face.

John doesn't return one in response. Alexander’s grin slides away.

"I..." Alexander fumbles over his words. "I hope it's alright to visit, I know I should’ve really sent word. I..." He trails off with a deep sigh, and looks down at his hands, folded over each other. "I suppose you've seen it."

John barks out a harsh laugh. “I doubt there’s anyone in the country who hasn’t, Alexander.” He finally looks at him, fixing him with a sharp stare. “What in Gods name were you thinking?”

“I was defending myself!” Alexander answers sharply, but then visibly clamps up, forcing himself to calm. Takes a deep breath and exhales. “I...was laying out my defense for a crime of which I was erroneously accused of.”

“At the cost of your wife and family’s esteem?”

“And since when have you cared at all for that?”

It’s out before Alexander can stop himself, and it’s the wrong thing to say. John flares.

“What are you doing here, Alexander?”

"I needed to see you."

"Why? I would imagine the demands of your household are quite great right now. How ever were you able to steal away?"

Alexander flushes. “I…!” He begins aggressively, but the intensity fades quickly. “Eliza went to visit her parents in Albany. I chose to….stay behind. For work.”

John laughs. “Ah yes. _For work_."

“I don’t understand why you’re being like this.” Alexander huffs, crossing his arms. “I would have thought…”

“You would have thought what? That I would be eagerly awaiting to bind your wounds and pat you on the head? That you could scurry up here and escape the trouble you’ve found yourself in?”

Alexander looks genuinely confused. “I...no, nothing like…” He pauses, squinting as he crosses his arms. “Are you...angry with me?”

John can’t help but snort and shake his head. Unbelievable, but unsurprising. For all his brilliance, the man could be completely blind to other’s sensibilities. “You have published a record to the world of your greatest indiscretion without so much as a note of warning, how else should I take the news? Why should I think i’m anything other than another warm body to distract you from your problems?”

Shock and confusion write themselves all over Alex's face, and it’s evident that for a moment, he doesn't understand. As he processes the words, he looks astounded. "What? John, no..." He shakes his head and balls his fists. "You cannot possibly be upset with me for this, you weren't even here!"

"But here in enough time to take her place."

"Well, I…” Alexander sputters, throwing up his hands. “This is absurd! Do you really think so little of yourself...of what you mean to me? John, you must know, you and that woman are not the same...."

"It feels curiously similar." John laughs, a hollow, empty sound. "We are the same in the eyes of God, are we not? Some baseless retreat to make you feel better when your life has been wrought. I had believed ours to be a unique situation but I cannot help feeling different about it now."

Again, it takes Alexander a moment to process through his shock, but instead of indignation, his expression grows horrified. “You can’t be serious, John, I love you.” He crosses the room in two or three strides and grabs John’s hands. “You cannot think that you are nothing more than a balm to me, John, you are my greatest friend. I need you…”

“To feel better about yourself!” John wrenches his arm away. “You can’t always run away from your problems, you can’t just use….”

Alexander interrupts him with an incredulous laugh. “ _I_ run away from my problems? Me? That sure is a thing to hear, coming from you.”

“This isn’t about the things i’ve done.”

“The hell it isn’t. Don’t you dare go accusing me of offenses you yourself have committed.”

They glare at each other in silence.

“I think it may be best if we don’t see each other for some time.” John steers himself back on course, but looks away from Alexander as he says it. “We can write but we should keep it to business. I just don’t know if it’s appropriate in the wake of all of this to maintain a relationship.”

Alexander voice shakes when he answers. “You cannot be serious.” John closes his eyes against the plea. “John, this is a fight. A quarrel, I am...I’m sorry if you felt...neglected or slighted by the piece, you’re right, I should have been more forthcoming regarding that situation. But I was...ashamed, of what I’d gotten myself caught up in, at what it had come to…”

“And I accept your apology.” John responds evenly, because while he accepts it, it is still too fresh for him to forgive. “I just think that, given our past, given the nature of the indiscretion now, it is best if we do not see each other for awhile.” When he looks back up, Alexander is distraught. “You have to focus on your family, Alexander. You know you have to make this up to them.”

"That is my business!”

“It is.” John doubles down. “And I have been intruding on it for too long. I won’t be a party to it any longer.” He shakes his head. “I can’t, Alexander.”

“You promised me," And it's cruel, John thinks; Alexander is almost 40 and yet his voice twists and breaks like he’s never been so hurt before. "You promised me you wouldn't leave."

"I'm not leaving." John insists. "We can still write. But if we cannot be around each other and keep things chaste, we ought not be around one another at all.” He shakes his head. “I just think we need some time.”

"John. Please."

The plea almost breaks him. For a moment, he wishes to reconsider; Alexander’s expression hides nothing. Normally, his face is a mask as he considers his next play, but all John can see now is the concern, the fear and the dread.

"We are young men no longer. This exercise in attempting to regain what’s been lost needs to end. It needs to stay there.” John sighs, shaking his head. “Go home, Alexander. You owe your wife that small consolation after the things we’ve done. What you’ve now done."

"I've always loved you more" Alexander's voice is soft, strained and accusatory. "I _forgave_ you for leaving. You were more important to me than that slight. Than any slight."

"This isn't about a slight or forgiveness." John responds quietly. "This is about doing what is right. We’ve carried on with this farce long enough.” He looks up. “It’s not real, Alexander. None of this, since I’ve returned, none of it is real.”

Alexander shakes his head. “Of course it’s real, John. Why ever would it not be real?”

“It was real, once.” John allows softly. “But those days are gone and we must move past it. And I believe a clean break, for a time at the very least, is our best way to do that.”

Alexander studies him quietly, jaw set and eyes working back and forth. John knows he’s thinking through every possible attempt, any possible justification or excuse or affection, but he sighs without another objection and he shakes his head. The crabbed mask has returned, rendering Alexander's expression indecipherable.

“Alright then. You’ve obviously thought about this, I can see there is nothing to convince you otherwise.” His eyes narrow. “Just remember that. That this is what _you_ wanted.” He turns to go. “I’ll not bother you with a visit again. Goodbye John.”

The door closes as Alexander leaves without another sound and John stews where he stands for a few quiet moments before grabbing a ceramic mug on the table. He casually examines it, considering it momentarily before he spins around and hurls it at the wall with an anguished cry. He stands there heaving in place, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and he hears the front door open and close again, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Can you just...?" He spins around, his tone low and of warning, but he stops in the middle of the sentence when he sees Jasper standing there, staring at him.

He doesn't think. He hesitates for only a moment before striding over and closing the distance, taking Jasper's face in his hands and pressing his lips to the other man, hard and needy. Jasper makes a noise at it, apparently not expecting such a welcome, and he takes John's wrists in his grip and pushes him away, spinning away from the contact.

"No, not like this...not...not like this." Jasper says, backing away from him, holding a hand up. "I'm going to get you a blanket, and some tea, and we're going to sit near the hearth and play cards."

"It's the middle of August, Jasper, I don't need a blanket."

Jasper ignores him, pointing at the sofa in front of the hearth. "Go."

John does as he’s told. Jasper goes about making the tea without a word after he throws the blanket over the back of the chair for now, and John just stares at his hands, trying to quell what he feels may be panic in his chest.

What if he was wrong about all of this? When he’d first seen the pamphlet, the idea of seeing Alexander had turned his stomach and he’d wanted to put as much distance between them as possible but now that it had come to pass, he wasn't so sure.

And how could he have just...to Jasper? After how he had just laid into Alexander about the _exact_ same thing? Pouncing on him like mongrel in search of comfort to distract himself? Had that not gotten him in enough trouble with Martha after Kinloch, all those years ago?

“I’m sorry about that,” John gestures to the front door, alluding to the kiss as he pushes himself off the couch. “I shouldn't have done that, it was wrong. You don't have to do all this, I’m just going to go…”

“Sit down.” Jasper interrupted, walking to the hearth and hanging a kettle, kneeling to light the fire. “Cards and tea. Don't try and get out of it just because you’re lousy at Cribbage.”

He’s grinning at John when he says it and turns to start the fire.

John thinks of leaving anyway. He’s in a foul mood, can't imagine he’d be too good of company, but for some reason the idea of burrowing into his covers to mope is not appealing. He doesn't want Jasper to be mad at him either.

And he was not _lousy_ at Cribbage.

“We’ll see about that.” John snipes, forcing himself to grin. “At the end of all of this, i’ll keep that dollar piece, you prick, and you’ll owe me one more.”

Jasper only laughs as he pushes himself up onto his feet as the wood takes to light. He grabs at the card table against the wall and drags it over to sit between them before pulling their well worn deck of cards from the draw. He shuffles once or twice and then begins to deal.

“Prepare to put your money where your mouth is then.”

They play a few hands and Jasper tells him about how he went up to the house to speak with Edward, and tells him that plans have changed and it will be Sam coming to visit when the weather cools down a bit, and that he’ll bring the family as well. Who knows where they'll put them, Jasper adds.

He asks John if he’s heard the gossip about how the tavern keeper's son got caught with the Pastor’s daughter in the man's own stables; how the boy had barely escaped by climbing bareback on one of the Pastor's horses _as well_ , and then tells John about the fun the boys had about _that_ story over a pint.

John’s laughing before he realizes it. Jasper doesn't ask about Alexander once.

Their card game continues. It’s quiet. John doesn’t say much of anything, and Jasper’s small talk falls quiet.

John realizes suddenly that he's been at the mill fot 5 years. Just as long as his time in the war. Just as long as his time with Alexander and even then, they'd not spent it all together as much as he and Jasper had.

He realizes, from Jasper's silence and apparent understanding, that he can trust him; that he's been trusting him already, ever since the New Year.

"Did you mean it, back in the winter?" John asks, breaking the pattern of small talk and long silences. Jasper raises a brow in question, and grabs at the exhausted deck, shuffling to prepare for another round.

"Did I mean what?"

"What you said. On the new year. About me and my secrets." John met his gaze. "Did you mean it?"

Jasper softens. "Of course. None of what's happened changes anything, Jack."

John hums, considering, and accepts the cards as Jasper deals him in. They play a few turns, and Jasper jokes awkwardly about how he's dealt himself terribly. John throws down a card and wins the hand.

"Are you familiar with Henry Laurens? Out of South Carolina?"

Jasper looks at him curiously, then frowns in thought."President of Congress, during the war right? Yeah, I knew of him, growing up in the South." He bumped the cards against the table. "What of him?"

"D'ja know of his son? The one who fought in the war?"

"John, Laurens?" Jasper asks, then shrugs. "Colonel, right? I’d heard of him a time or two during some of the southern campaigns. Never met, of course." He grins. "Too high above my rank. Served with Washington himself, if I recall." His brow furrows. "Think he died, actually, during the war."

John smirks, shaking his head. He set his cards down on the table and leaned back, crossing his arms. "Lieutenant, Colonel. He did serve with Washington. And Alexander Hamilton." He sighs, swiping back at his cards and meeting Jasper’s gaze. "But. He didn’t, exactly, die."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to clarify, this is intended to be majorly AU; an idea to play with, and i'm Dramatic. Had Laurens really survived, he'd have had his famiy join him and probably gone onto be a a brilliant statesman. This is just for fun and angst, and i hope everyone is enjoying reading it as much as i enjoy writing it.
> 
> i'm on [tumblr ](http://cattlaydee.tumblr.com), feel free to yell at me.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not as happy with this as i have been other chapters, but I really want to move this along so I hope you guys like it. i'd say sorry for the wait but APPARENTLY since i'm incapable of more than 2 updates within a 2 months time frame, i'm just gonna sit in the corner with the shame cap on.
> 
> i hope you guys like it.

**Fall, 1799**

 

_Winter’s coming_ , John thinks to himself. Orange and auburn leaves fall around he and Jasper as they make their way out to boundary of the property, where the mouth of the creek that feeds their mill joins another and grows deeper, faster, and where the pull of trout is much more plentiful. The light of the sun trickles in between the leaves and he closes his eyes and stops for a moment, breathing in cool, crisp air.

“Jack?” Jasper calls to him. “Jack, are you alright?”

John opens his eyes to see Jasper a few paces ahead, one foot leaning up against a large rock. The land around them is damp and a little muddy, and the sound of the river is comforting as they follow it where they need to go. Jasper smiles when he see’s John has refocused on him. 

“C’mon now. We promised Sam we’d be there early so we’d have a good amount well before supper.”

John laughs softly and picks up his pace to walk closer to Jasper. The sun has been up for a couple of hours at this point, and the insects that have not yet perished with the chill of the fall nights are starting to buzz around their heads. _It’s warm this morning though_ , John thinks, and he’s thankful for it, for they will be fishing all afternoon; he waves away at the mosquito's and gnats that swarm around off the water, and as he catches up to Jasper, he shoves him softly, playfully, against his shoulder.

“If I’m going in, you’re going in with me,” Jasper warns with a chuckle. John hops away a few steps with a laugh and Jasper jogs forward keeping stride. It's less than a half mile until they come into sight of the home at the edge of the mill's property, a brand new estate they've helped build. The front door swings open with a bang, and a floppy, brown haired little boy bolts from it.

“Uncle Jack! Uncle Jasper!” A little boy cries as they approach. Jasper kneels as the toddler barrels at them and Sam follows shortly behind him with a grin. As Jasper peels off with the child, Sam offers a hand to John, who takes it and squeezes, patting him on the shoulder.

“You’d think he hadn’t seen us in years. We were just here last week!” John comments, gaze fixed on the pair near the ground.

He can hardly believe it’s only been 4 years since Sam struck out on his own. No longer a young and inexperienced man of 24, he’s built up a strong trade, and has filled out in his own right. Behind him near the home, John can see Katie, with an even younger one in her arms. She waves back with a soft smile.

“He’s almost 3. To him, a week _is_ an eternity.” Sam replies, settling close to watch as Jasper springs up with the boy in his grasp, tossing him up in the air before catching him and folding in on himself as he assaulted him with tickles. “You ready to prepare for tonight?”

They would be preparing this evening to celebrate the transfer of the mills ownership to Sam’s hands from Edward's. Jasper and John would still hold some stock in it, of course, but overwhelmingly it would be under Sam---and his father in law’s---purview. They’d helped him build the home behind them earlier in the year, and helped the family move in and get settled. 

They take their poles and lures down to a deeper part of the river where it opens up a bit and settle in on old tree stumps under some shade. Sam’s little boy has been allowed to follow him, and he mostly occupies himself chasing flying insects or birds, though Sam doesn’t let him go too far. As the day progresses, each of the men peel off to occupy him. John settles back down after his turn with the boy and Jasper takes over, again running to the child and throwing him over his shoulder as the boy cackles and squirms.

“You’re both so good with them.” Sam comments, tossing the line into deep water. He settles back against the stump, adjusting the hat on his head. “I cannot tell you how much it has meant to Kate and I. We were so worried what leaving her family would do to them, but Sammy has taken so well to Plainfield.”

“He’s a well behaved child. Smart too.”

Sam looks at John sideways after casting a quick glance at Jasper. “I’m surprised neither of you ever settled down. Never had your own. Never wanted any of that?”

John turns his gaze to where the river laps against the mud, where algae and plants tangle. “Never met someone worth trying it for.”

Sam is watching him, quiet. The years before he’d come to Plainfield remain a mystery to the rest of the mill boys and John prefers it to stay that way. He doesn’t want to have to explain the war, or his retreat to England. Really doesn’t want to have to explain leaving his family, his father and sister, or Martha and Frances; that was hard enough in the years before, when he’d laid himself bare for Jasper and confessed to his actions.

_ “I considered going South, when I first returned.”  _ John had told him, those couple of years past. _ "Considered trying to work with the planters down south for more effective methods of producing cotton---you’ve heard of Mr. Whitney’s cotton gin, I presume?” _

Jasper had nodded and John had continued.

_“So something along those lines,” John shrugged. “But...I soon realized I had no desire to take part in the further and more efficient subjugation of human beings, and so I stayed in the North. From what I have gathered, based solely on word of mouth and newspaper clippings, Frances was raised by my sister and was able to procure my back earnings from Congress. Outside of having to deal with the unpleasantness of the fallout of my decision…” He'd sighed. “I think it was just better if I stayed dead.”_

He’d been thinking of them more, now that he was older. He didn’t know if it was because he _was_ getting older, or because he’d essentially severed his ties to his old life when he’d sent Alexander away. Wasn’t sure if it was guilt. He’d never really considered either of them. Had never felt tied to Martha or Frances, had not felt any pull other than that of honor in obligation, and that had been nothing like the pull he’d felt of the cause of their war, or the bonds forged in the service of it.

Jasper had been silent in return, when he’d spilled his secrets. He had not condemned John for the act, but he’d not made an excuse for it either. It had just been what it was.

He shakes his head. It won’t serve to let his mind wander, so he shrugs and continues when Sam stays quiet. “I think,” John adds, looking at Sam. “I’m very content with my life anyway.”

He raises his gaze to watch where Jasper was manhandling the toddler. Sammy ran in circles as Jasper made the attempt to chase at him, and when he caught John looking, he straightened and waved, a bright smile on his face. John felt himself warm at it.

“You do seem more glad than I remember you being when you came here.”  Sam offers softly. “You obviously have taken to Sammy. I was just curious.”

When they feel they’ve satisfied their need, the head back toward the home where several servants began the task of cleaning and deboning the catch. The men head down to the river once more to wash up after spending the day outside with the fish and return in time for the guests to begin their arrival, just as places are to be set.

John's eyes follow Jasper at times. He wonders if it's noticeable.  Jasper takes his time meandering around the room, sharing a drink with the men and sometimes asking a lady or two to dance. He crouches to speak to the children so he's at their eye level, drawing out peals of laughter and sending them running as he humors them.

Jasper is good with children. Taken with them even. When he catches John looking they share a fond smile.

They hadn't fallen together all at once. His...relationship with Jasper had matured differently than it had with Alexander. There had been no raw, uninhibited passion, no impending cannon fire or unpromised days ahead, and John had not wanted to create problems, not after the debacle he'd put an end to with Alexander. So they had existed for a bit. They had to still be careful, of course---it is still not appropriate behavior between two men, and so around Edward and the boys who came to the mill, they keep their distance and maintain a chaste friendship.    
  
But as time had passed, there were moments.   
  
Jasper promised to keep his secrets of his past. He never alluded to them, doesn’t to this day, never hints at John's true self and kept to calling him Jack. Sometimes, when they’d sit down for dinner and food was passed around, one of their hands would touch, easily seen to be just the breaking of bread but Jasper's eyes would flicker to him, or John's heart would catch and it started to feel like something was beginning again.   
  
It was different than with Alexander. With Alexander, they had started in their Valley Forge quarters over candle, a small hovel with two cots and a sorry excuse for a hearth, and inebriated teases that turned into playful wrestling and a kiss.   
  
With Jasper, it happened in inches, without John realizing it. When he’d sit little closer to Jasper than he'd ever done before. Or a few weeks later, when an arm landed up behind his neck, as Alexander had once done, fingers playing with the small strands of hair at the base.    
  
It's wasn’t even premeditated, when John crawled into his bed on a particularly cold, October night, the first freeze of the season, and Jasper pulled the covers over them and allowed John’s embrace. 

“John?”

Jasper’s whisper pulls him from his memories. He doesn't call him by his name often. John realizes the party is thinning and he notes Kate and the children have retired, that Sam and Edward are wishing guests well as they depart. He blinks up at Jasper, bleary and a little drunk. Jasper only smiles, his hand warm on John’s shoulder and he squeezes it.

“Let's go home.”

* * *

News comes on horseback later in December, word carried from down south of George Washington’s passing.

A child delivers it, breathless on the back of a pony with a cry in their drive. Jasper and John pull to a stand from their work clearing the snow, John at the front, Jasper behind, and the hired hands from Boston in the door. John doesn’t feel the shovel slip from his hands, but he senses Jasper soon behind him.

John feels...curiously, nothing. Once he realizes he’s dropped the spade, after a long pause, he chuckles a little, shaking his head and turning back to Jasper, who watches him carefully. “Butterfingers, eh?”

He crouches and picks it up, and continues at his work.

_ Firelight flickered between them as John continued to dole their cards out. Jasper was quiet, watching John with a puzzled stare as John, unnervingly calm, started in Paris and meandered backwards. _

_ The story picked up speed as he tells it. John had focused his eyes on the table in front of him, fiddling with the cards in his hands as the tale unraveled. He mentioned his decision to return to the states, and then began to talk of his early, formal education in Geneva. Talked about how he came back to fight in the war. Mentioned a wife and a child, and moved quickly to how he came to be in the service of General Washington. _

_ Jasper only listened. He didn't make any sort of sound, encouraging or otherwise. When John did happen to chance a look, Jasper’s brow furrowed as he listened intently. Though his arms were crossed tightly over his chest, John was relieved to find that he didn't seem angry. _

_Jasper took the news well, all things considered. He listened quietly while the story poured out of John for only the second time since he'd been back to the States, about how he'd been rescued by a good Samaritan, how he'd stolen away to Europe, how he'd learned of their trade and how he'd ended up coming back.  
  
John had been exhausted when he'd finished. His body had gone limp, as if he'd just trekked a hundred miles and he sighed deeply. "I know, I shouldn't have kept such a thing..."  
  
"It wasn't our story to demand of you." Jasper interrupted him. "Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens." And he'd shaken his head with a laugh, and there'd been a twinkle to his eye. "Well, it's a pleasure, sir. I suppose I have to start saluting you now."  
  
_ _John had laughed and shaken his head. "Please, don't.”_ ////

“Are you alright?” 

They’re back in the mill doing work when Jasper’s question pulls John’s attention from his work. He looks up from where he kneels close to the millstone and frowns.

“Whyever wouldn’t I be alright?”

Jasper responds with only a skeptical look. “You served closely with the General.”

John laughs. “20 years gone! I barely even remember what he looks like.”

“I find that difficult to believe. Not sure anyone could forget what a man like that looks like.”

John stands abruptly, shaking his head as he wiped his hands. “I’m fine, Jasper. But I appreciate you asking.”

He walks away without another look, leaving Jasper alone and unsatisfied, letting the door clap behind him as he heads back to their cabin. Jasper doesn’t raise the issue again for the remainder of the day.

"What was he like?" Jasper asks him the next night, the winter wind of December howling outside their window.    
  
"Hm?"   
  
"The General." Jasper is sitting up at the head of the bed, and John's is half in his lap as he lays on his side with a book. Jasper's hands are gently massaging at his hair, winding around the strands as he combs through them. "I mean, we only ever saw him from far away." His face twists thoughtfully. "At least, I think I did. Giant white horse. A tower of a man." He makes a sort of noise with his teeth. "I'd never seen anyone like him."   
  
"Then you'd seen him." John replies simply, and shifts to curl up a bit with a frown, pointedly turning a page of his book. Jasper rests his hand on his side.    
  
"But, what was he _like_? In closed quarters?" The question comes again. John sigh sounds as if he's annoyed, and flops onto his back, sure to keep his finger between the pages of the book to mark his place.   
  
"I mean, he was a General. He barked orders and we followed them. He offered guidance and we abided it. He..." John trails off, and he blinks suddenly, and his chest felt tight. "He was a good man. Did you know, I dueled in his defense? Insubordinates were spreading terrible rumors, it threatened to tear senior leadership apart. In the end though...they saw to reason."   
  
"Oh?"   
  
"He acted as if he were furious, but we dined together shortly afterwards and I think he was secretly pleased by it. By our loyalty. There's was all sorts of in fighting when the war was still uncertain. And morale was low, and we had no supplies, but he just always..." John shook his head. "They will lionize him. They already do. He was no God, though; he was not a perfect man. He..." And just like that, John is out of words, and his throat gets tight and it was suddenly a little hard to breathe.   
  
"I'm sorry, John."   
  
John lets the book fall to the floor, suddenly uninterested in the tale. He flips to his other side with a deep sigh and buries his face in Jasper's thigh and closes his eyes, and he feels Jasper's hand pet his hair, though he says nothing else. He doesn't remember falling asleep but when he wakes in the morning, though still in sorrow, it is a sentiment he is relieved to feel. He allows himself to mourn with the rest of his neighbors.

 

* * *

It’s easy. And while it lacks a certain spark he'd felt with Alexander, it's...comforting. Like the warm ocean water off the coast of South Carolina, and he thinks of how as a boy he'd wade out and just float, the salty smell of the sea and the warm sun lulling him almost to sleep, remembers how he had to keep conscious not to drown.    
  
Alexander still writes, but his words are dull and sometimes cold. Business like, though John can't fault him for it; it is, after all, what he's asked for. The children are fine and thriving; Eliza delivered him a 7th child the year before and John had sent his congratulations. Alexander's law practice is fine, though he's finding himself more and more at odds with Burr and some of the other factions of the Democratic Republicans. He mentions potential military action, how he and Washington were working for a time on efforts for a standing army, for a military school, but after the General passes, he sends no other words about him.    
  
Everything is fine.   
  
Alexander seems to have fallen quite comfortably back into his life in the City, and John doesn't regret the decision he's made at all.   
  
The boys who have come to the mill are well trained, smart and capable and young. He watches how they move quickly and last longer in the day and he himself winces as he finds his joints tightening and muscles aching more often than ever. Life is easy. Constant and abiding, predictable in a way John is comforted by now that he's older, in a way that would have driven him mad in his youth.   
  
And yet, still, he finds himself sometimes thinking of Alexander. Their letters are infrequent now, every 3 or 4 months, and though they drift, he sometimes dreams of him. He doesn’t say anything. Tries his best bite back when he almost mentions him, tries not to invoke his memory too often when he talks about his past.

Everything is calm, and uneventful, and easy. It’s not exciting but it’s also not hard; he’s content, they’re all comfortable and he thinks, _if this is my life for the rest of my life, I will be fortunate_ , even if there’s still some small part of him that still _wants_.

It all stays like that, for another year, uneventful, and boring, and without much thought for anything else.

Until, as the effect of time often dictates, it does not.   


* * *

It’s December. It will be Christmas in two weeks time. They’ve planned for a dinner and are working on cleaning up some of the storage area in the main mill house for the guests they have invited, when one morning Jasper shows up with the weekly mail, expression dark. John looks up at him where he sits, forehead crinkling with concern.

“Whatever is it?"

Jasper shuffles the pile in his hand, stuffing a few already opened letters in his waistcoat before unfolding the paper and tossing it onto the desk.    
  
Jasper tossed down the paper, tucking his own letters under his arm. He nods at the print, fixing John with a pointed look. "You'll want to see that."   
  
John picked up it up with a curious look at his partner and unfolded the print slowly. There, in big bold print right up front, was a headline that made his heart drop.

_**This morning, in the 19th year of his age, Philip Hamilton, eldest son of General Hamilton– murdered in a duel against rival George Eacker** _

"Oh, no..." He breathes out. There’s a metallic taste in the back of mouth, as if he's bit his cheek and drawn blood, but he senses it’s more to do with how his stomach has just turned over. 

 “Terrible, isn’t it?” Jasper clicks his tongue. “You’ve always said how close he was to the boy.”

 “He seemed a bright, well kept young man when I met him. I wonder whatever happened.” John replies, skimming over it for details. He winces at the mention of the bereaved parents, at the story of how Eacker insulted Alexander and how Philip had attempted to take the man to task for it.

 He could only imagine how Alexander was handling that.

“Are you going to go to New York?” Jasper asks, and in a tone that feels as if Jasper believes he should.

John shakes his head. “No. No, I can’t imagine I would be of any help or comfort. I’m sure his family is going through enough right now.” He shrugs. “Besides, by now they’d be in Albany for the holiday. I doubt they returned until after the new year.”

“Ah.”

John senses the disagreement in a simple syllable. He frowns. “You think I should?”

“I think, at one time, you were his closest and most dearest friend, and that maybe he could use  that right about now.” He pauses. “I also think had you not had that row a few years back, you’d be on a horse already on your way.”

“There’s a lot of things that would be different had we not had that row a few years back.”

Now it’s Jasper’s turn to frown. “If you’re expecting me to be jealous of it, you’d be wrong. I’m not sending you off to a dinner party to woo him. His son is dead, John. You were his best friend.”

“You don’t understand.”   
  
"Oh, I don’t understand serving in a war and creating bonds with men in closed spaces?" Jasper rounds on him, brow crinkling and John's feels as if it's an admonishment. He’s also suddenly struck by a thought as Jasper stares pointedly---he’s never considered Jasper’s past, not since what they’ve discussed at the cabin.

Never considered that maybe Jasper has his own Alexander that he doesn’t talk about. He thinks about asking but Jasper’s annoyed with his evasions and he feels like maybe right now isn’t the best time so he puts it away for a later date.

“I didn’t say that.” John says evenly. “It’s just...our last meeting was contentious. _I_  told him to leave. I don’t want to...seem contradictory.”   
  
“Do you think that will be his worry at a time like this?” Jasper ask. “Do you think he won’t be just glad to see you?”

John eyes him, warily and with the hint of an incredulous smile on his face, because will Alexander Hamilton forget a snub, in any circumstance, even if it is only at the edge of his mind? Doubtful. “I will consider it.”

And he does. He cannot stop thinking about Alexander talking about his family when he grew up---the only time Alexander had ever spoken of his mother and father and brother, under the influence of the Baron’s good whiskey. How his eyes, glassy and distant, had focused on his own folded hands as his words slurred and John had only wanted to hold him tight, because he had been sad. He’d spoken of his father like some unattainable goal, always just beyond his reach. 

John can't help remembering the way Alexander had looked at Phillip, or at the young John Church, with nothing but fondness and pride. He remembered the way Alexander’s eyes followed the boys up the stairs and how Alexander had turned back to him beaming, hands grabbing at his lapels as he preened, as if to say, look John; look at this wonderful thing I have made. 

Now, John shed a tear for it. At how Alexander must be feeling, at what he and his family were going through. The ache in his chest leaves him breathless, and he realizes he must accept this one truth, and it is that no matter what has happened between them, no matter whatever does, he will never stop loving Alexander Hamilton. He never has. 

He knows he should write and announce his visit. He should make sure it is alright, but he is afraid Alexander, occasionally spiteful as he could be, would rebuff his efforts at reconciliation and refuse him. 

“I’ll be here when you get back.” Jasper reassures when John relays his decision to visit. John’s mind is too preoccupied at the moment to notice, but there’s something odd in the way Jasper is looking at him. He’s not suspicious, there’s no hint of concern that John and Alexander will rekindle their past relationship, but there’s an odd half smile on Jasper’s face. All John can think is how odd of a statement it is to make; where else would he go?

“I’ll wait until after the holiday. Alexander’s birthday is at the beginning of January, and they will probably stay in Albany until then. I’ll keep my way for a visit until after.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Jan 1801**

It’s freezing when John arrives in New York.

He worries about the carriage. There are deep ridges in the road where wheels before his had dug into the mud and with the chill, they’ve frozen into hard and uneven pathways that he is worried could turn them over or delay them greatly. For all his concerns, he arrives in New York as the sun sets, with only a sore backside to complain about. He tips the driver double what he had considered originally.

He'd not posted another advertisement for his apartment in the city yet, and so it has sat empty these last 2 months with his intent of a visit. He’s traveled lightly, so he settles in quickly and lights a fire. He rubs at his hands while it builds and sits with a sketchbook to bide his time. It’s almost completely dark out, and he’d eaten before he’d gotten back to the home. He had purchased a new set of books on his way into the city, and he’s looking forward to cracking those open.

He plans on visiting Alexander tomorrow. He decides to visit his office first in midtown---John still has not met Eliza and is not sure the midst of her mourning period would be the best of times. Besides, he’s been to Alexander’s office’s before, and some of the clerks know him. Satisfied with his plan, he allows himself a ration of brandy before bed, reads a few chapters of one of his new books, and settles in before it gets too late.

January is miserable in the city. It’s colder and more sharp than December. He makes sure he wraps a scarf around his neck and face, that he procures a fine, wool hat and pulls his jacket in tight. When he makes his way to Alexander’s firm, he braces himself before he enters, but hurries in to escape the cold.

A young man at the front desk blinks up at him. John has no idea who he is.

It’s not unusual, he supposes. Alexander hires young interns who are aiming to start school, and John hasn’t been here in 3 years. He removes his hat from his head, dusting it off as he smooths out his hair and offers a hesitant smile. “Hello, sir. I was wondering, is General Hamilton in this morning?”

The young man’s expression darkens. “And who may you be, sir?”

“Mr. Jack Ball. I work up in Massachusetts. I am an old friend of the General, and haven’t been around in some time.”

The younger man regards him skeptically. “The General is not in presently, he has taken a leave of absence in the wake of his son’s passing.”

John frowns. “Are he and his family still upstate? I would have expected….”

“General Hamilton returned earlier this week, he’s been quite busy actually.” The boy interrupts. “He is getting ready for the family’s move uptown. The rest of the family has remained in Albany while he gets things in order.” The boy's lips press into a line. “Mrs. Hamilton is still quite upset about the matter.”

“As one would expect,” John responds quietly. But this is...probably for the better. It was definitely one of the more concerning aspects of the visit. “Your name, sir?”

“Hercules, sir. Hercules Mulligan.”

John’s struck still. The boy is...he looks young. Can’t be more than 16 or 17, but he supposes...when he looks….

“Sir?” The boy asks uncomfortably. “Is there something else I can help you with?”

“....no.” John coughs out. “No, my apologies, I just...think I may have known your father, for a brief time, during the war.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. I assume I will be able to find General Hamilton at his usual residence.”

The boy nods. “Should I pass on a greeting, then sir? To my father? If you are friends?”

John feels an ache in his chest, for it's come to a time when, oh he would love to check in on an old friend, but now is not the time for such endeavors. He shakes his head. “We’re not friends...we only met a few times. I don’t believe he’d recall me.” He set the hat back on his head with a wiggle to make sure it sat right. “Thank you for your help, young man. I’ll pass on a good word to the General.”

John decides to eat first. He very well may be a coward, but his belly is growling and depending on how this goes, his appetite may disappear after.

As the tavern lady brings him an ale and his sandwich, he thinks on how to best approach the situation. Now that he knows it is Alexander alone, he wonders if it ought not to be better to send a note first.

He decides against it, much for the same reason as he’d thought before. The boy at the office had mentioned he was busy and he didn’t doubt it; if he remembered anything about some of the times when things had gotten tough for Alexander, it was that he had a tendency to throw himself into his work in an effort to forget about everything else. He was prone to late nights and early mornings, and pages and pages of writings.

A move uptown, as the boy mentioned, was interesting as well, but not at all unsurprising. They had raised Phillip in the home, had made the memories there for their large family. Though he had never been fond of the idea of who Eliza was to Alexander, he feels a pang for them both. How terrible it must be, to face such things.

He decides against his nerves. He doesn’t anticipate it will be easy, but he feels as if once he has a chance to talk with him, it will be better. It’s not as if Alexander hates him; was that the case, their communications would have ended entirely.

He recognizes the lady who greets him as the help who was present during his visit years ago. If she recognizes him in return, she gives no indication.

“May I ask what business you are here for? Do you have an appointment with the General?”   
  
She steps aside to let him in and takes his hat and overcoat and hangs it on the stand near the door. He clears his throat, shakes his head. “No, ma’am, I was just visiting the city. I’m old friends...with the General. I wanted to...express my condolences on his terrible loss.”

The woman winces, and then nods. “It would probably do him well to have a break, the man’s been up with the sun every morning.” She shakes her head. “I will let him know we have company. Your name, sir?”

“Mr. Jack Ball. From Massachusetts.”

She disappears towards his study and he waits. He can hear muffled voices behind the closed door, though nothing to indicate shouting or refusal, which he considers a good sign. She emerges and tells him that Alexander will see him then, and walks away without another word. John warily eyes the door for a moment, but heads towards it.

Alexander is bent over his desk, scribbling at some pad of paper. He doesn’t look up when he hears John enter and close the door behind him, intently focused on whatever it is he has in front of him. He punctuates finally, calmly resting the quill in the inkwell at the corner of his desk before leaning back on his chair and finally looking up at John, who holds in a gasp.

Alexander looks terrible. His skin is pale---almost gray---and it hangs from his face as if he’s lost weight rather quickly. There are bags under his eyes like John has never seen, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept more than a few hours a night since the incident occurred. That doesn’t surprise John in the least.

“What are you doing here?” Alexander asks flatly. He surveys John warily, disdain evident in his gaze, and John shifts awkwardly where he stands, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I um...I came to the city because I wanted to...I wanted to see how you were faring.”

Alexander’s brows rise in surprise. “How I am  _faring_?” He opens his arms wide. “And what do you see?”

John’s heart beat picks up, his entire being aware of the danger of his friend’s fury. “Alexander, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Alexander replies smoothly, but he stands up, his swivel chair rolling back with force. “Whatever are you sorry for?”

“Alexander, please…”

“No, no. Please be specific.” Alexander insists, wound tight. “Because I haven’t _seen_ you in almost four years. Your letters have been downright sanitary. We did appreciate the congratulations on Elizabeth’s arrival, though.” He snipes; John looks down at his hat, recalling a brief, one-lined postscript mention from his last letter. “Why would something similar not have sufficed for this occasion?” Alexander began to round the desk slowly. “So I ask you again. Why are you  _here_?”

_ Because part of you is still the boy from the war, and I’ll never not love you,  _ John thinks to himself, but that is not what he says. “I know how dear Phillip was to your heart, and I was worried about you.”

Something flashes across Alexander’s face, a mix of pain and rage and something indistinguishable before it becomes cool once more. “Worried. You were...worried.” Alexander leans against the front of the desk, only feet in front of John, considering him. “And you thought a visit was the best way to express this? Would not some note announcing your intention to visit be more appropriate? A sort of warning? Instead of just dropping in unannounced?”

Perhaps he should have sent the note.

It’s a barb, John realizes, a taunt that recalls his own anger about the Pamphlet, but John knows what Alexander is doing and he doesn’t take the bait. “I’m not here to fight with you.”

But Alexander wants a fight. Fighting is what Alexander excels at. Fire and rage, burning away at all the rotten parts until they are gone. He’s always been a maelstrom, a passion driven whirlwind that exhausted his opponents and saw himself as the ever present victor, but what victory is to be had now? What was there to burn away and to salvage, in the wake of the death of a child?

There was nothing. Nothing that would survive that.

It doesn’t mean Alexander’s not going to attempt it.

"You come here for what? If I am faring poorly, then to make me feel better? To take care of hapless, self-destructive Alexander?” He slowly stalks towards John. “I think I’m faring quite well, all things considered. How dare you come here, and think I need  _your_  help. You, the coward. You, the fiend. A man who ran away from his friends and family, from people who loved him, how dare you think I need anything from you now, you baseless animal!"

John understands self-flagellation. He understands being so angry with things you've done, and the way you are, and just hating every moment, so much so that it cannot be contained, and so one lashes out at the nearest target.

So John lets it happen. He lets Alexander rage against him. He allows him to tear at his name and his character with his teeth, gnashing at it as a feral animal would rend flesh from bone. He allows him to rage against him with his his open palm as he presses, and slaps, and screams insults and obscenities. Lets him poke, then shove, all until John's against a wall in the corner of his study, where Alexander finally slams a hand right next to where John's head is on the wall, so hard that it drops a portrait from where it hangs, shattering it on the floor beside him. 

Because soon the rage is gone, spent, a fire extinguished from lack of air in a closed space, and all that is left is hollow and empty. That, John soon finds, is worse.    
  
The wail that erupts from deep within Alexander is high, and keening and inhuman, and now the animal that has been stripping him to nothing is bare itself, and Alexander curls in, pressing the side of his face into John’s waistcoat, coated with sweat and tears and snot.

“I did this. I gave him the guns.” Alexander grabs onto John jacket, twisting the fabric in his hands. “John, I killed my son.”

John gently takes hold of Alexander's wrists and he pulls slowly backwards. They slump back against the wall of his office, and John lowers himself and Alexander to the floor gently, gathering the man in his arms and pulling him close as unrelenting sobs shake his frame.    
  
He would never allow himself this, John knows, not if Eliza was here, not around his other friends of status, or his children, not even if he were alone. He'd barely allowed it for John, and if not for his passive resistance to Alexander’s temper, probably not even then. But he needs it. Probably has needed it for a long while. He tightens his hold and hushes him, rests his chin on the top of Alexander’s hair, closes his eyes.   
  
He tells him he is strong. That its alright to grieve. That it wasn't his fault. Tells him that he loves him, though he’s not sure Alexander is in a state well enough to even believe it.   
  
He doesn't tell him it will be okay. Because he knows that for Alexander, it never will be.   
  


* * *

After Alexander’s breathing has returned to an even pace and his body’s gone limp, John spies a peek to see if he’s fallen asleep. Alexander’s eyes, though, are open; but they are glazed over and empty, staring at a bare spot on the wall across from them where it looks like the paper may be peeling.

John works him to his feet and bears most of Alexander’s weight on his shoulder, directing him to the stairs and then to his room. He sits Alexander on the bed, stripping him of his shoes and his coat before calling to Emily for some brandy cut with water. When that order is finished, John goes to the vanity to find some tepid water remains from the morning, dipping a cloth and wringing it out.  He walks back to the side of the bed and wipes at Alexander’s face, around his eyes and nose, tucking his hair back.

Alexander’s gaze refocuses on him, as if finally seeing him again. John half expects him to be suddenly fiery and defensive once more but Alexander only swallows and bows his head without a word. John stays silent as well, moving to the door when Emily arrives and passes the glass to Alexander, encouraging him to down the glass.

“I think it best if you rest, hm?” John says as Alexander grabs at it and sips. “This will help you sleep.”

“Will you stay?”

John flushes. “Alexander…”

“I didn’t mean with me,” He follows up tonelessly. He doesn’t look over at John at all, his gaze still fixated at some spot on the floor. “There’s a guest room on the ground floor. Although I suppose you do have your apartment. I’d forgotten.”

He sounds as if he’s in a daze. The brandy is gone quickly and his lashes flutter as he sighs deeply and John has to wonder, how long has it been since Alexander has had a restful night's sleep? In addition to his son’s fall, how many times was he kept up over concerns of how to help Eliza, and the rest of their children, without any concern for his own well being?

“I’ll stay until you wake up.” John assures. “We can talk more then.”

Alexander nods silently, lowering himself to the pillows. John walks over to help him, pulling back the covers and then up over his chest, watching as Alexander closes his eyes. He leaves quietly, closing the door as gently as possible. He meets up with Emily in the hall and she directs him to the guest room Alexander had mentioned. It’s nice; a large bed, well lit and with it’s own fireplace.

He decides to stay then, for real, and for as long as he needs to.

* * *

The first day, Alexander sleeps longer than John has ever known him to stay in bed. It is nearly after noon of the next day when he emerges from his rooms, freshly bathed and presentable, and sits down to join John in their parlor. John rests the paper he’s reading on the side table between their chairs, folding his hands in his lap as he waits for Alexander to say something. John knows he is an unexpected guest, and although he hopes Alexander feels better after the previous day’s outburst, he is completely prepared for continued snark and sharp words.

None come. Alexander doesn’t bring up the day before, but instead explains, with a deep sigh, that he is back in the city early to move the family's’ home uptown. Eliza, he continues, is due to give birth to their last child in the late spring. She had stayed behind in Albany because when they had broached the idea of coming back after the New Year, her eyes had fluttered and she’d grown faint. With the baby still early in her belly, they were concerned about her well-being, and it was really just easier if he handled the whole thing himself.

“I’ve made the necessary immediate arrangements. There’s a lovely plot of land and we submitted the plans to an architect before the Christmas holiday and so they’ve begun to build. The home should be ready by Spring, and the family will join me then, but until then, i’ve got to pack and get things sorted and…” Alexander trails off, and he ducks his head. “I’ve got to go through Phillip’s things as well. Eliza would like to donate what we could to the orphanage down the street, and there are some things I suppose she’ll want kept, but…” He rubs at his brow, closing his eyes with a sigh. “So much work to be done.”

John wants to reach out and grab his hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs and leans forward. “I’m in no rush to hurry back to the mill. I’ll help you.”

Alexander looks up at him warily. John doesn’t try to convince him, and instead let’s Alexander think on it for a few quiet moments before he nods, and then goes to push himself up from his armchair and head towards his office. He motions for John to join. “Come,” He begins. “I’ve an inventory and a to-do list already started.”

Alexander hires help to pack some things, like the children’s and empty guest rooms, and anything else they won’t be needing before the move. John helps him take further inventory where it’s needed, helps the men direct where they’ll be going. On the days that Alexander must go to his law practice, John stays behind to help around the home and draft responses to potential buyers of the property, or of others that write to Alexander that he will need help responding to. They maintain separate living spaces, they don’t even ever touch, Alexander barely looks at him, but he’s allowing John to help. He doesn’t rebuff it when John tells him he should take a break or rest, and slowly, but surely, Alexander seems to eat a bit more; seems to maybe even smile once or twice at a story John tells. Slowly, but surely, the light appears to inch back in.

It is a few weeks later that Alexander asks John to follow him. They take the hall to the end where a door has been closed since John has arrived and he feels his stomach sink when Alexander pauses with his hand on the curved knob. He watches quietly as Alexander takes one or two deep breaths, then clasps the knob and pushes. John knows precisely where they are now.

The air in the room is stale. John expects the door and the windows have been closed for months at this point, with no air circulating through it. It’s a clear, freezing day outside, and the sun streams in, illuminating the dust motes that have gathered like tumbleweeds by the baseboards. Ice crystal patterns decorate the window panes.

Alexander sighs loudly, pulling John from his thoughts. When John looks over, Alexander is leaning against the door jamb, staring at the cleanly made bed, not saying a word. For the first time since the first day, John reaches out to his friends shoulder and gives him a firm squeeze. Alexander only nods without saying anything and straightens up, pulling his waistcoat taught on his body.  

“It’s got to be done, and I won’t have just anyone pilfering through his things.” He looks up at John. “You’ll help me?”

“Of course.”

They settle in. John immediately heads towards a bookshelf that has been packed to the brim and begins to sort through the collection, into piles he believes Alexander will want to keep or give away to the local library. Alexander heads to the armoire and begins to look through his clothes. John spares a look every now and then to see how he is holding up, but aside from a somber expression, Alexander seems to be handling it alright.

It doesn’t take too long. John saves the more personal effects for Alexander, like the trunk at the base of his bed, or the scribbles of notes at his desk in the corner. Instead, he work to inventory what is there, and tries to mark what he believes Alexander will want to try and sell or keep. During all of this, he drops his quill at a point and drops to the ground to find it, and see’s a few trinkets that have been kicked under the bed.

An undershirt in the corner. A few spare coins. A shoe. And a few books.

John scrambles under and grabs them all, pulling them out into the open and Alexander lowers himself to the ground to see the hidden finds. He picks up one of the books with a confused look on his face, looking at the book's binding and opening to the front cover. As he scans it, he barks out a laugh and shakes his head.

“Little scoundrel…” He mutters, flipping through the pages. When he looks up and see’s John’s questioning look and begins to explain. “A library book. Was due back at the end of October. I always told him to be careful with borrowed things…” He sighs, shaking his head as he closes it. “I'll have to pay the fine myself, I suppose.”

“I’m sure they won’t…”

“No, no.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I need to take a trip there anyway with our donations. It won’t be much.”

They stay on the floor in silence. By now, night has fallen and the candles on the walls have been lit, casting faint shadows in the corners. Piles have been made around the room, of books, and pieces of parchment, either inked or not; there are baubles, and trinkets from Philip's childhood, and two piles of clothes, one bound for charity, the other for his younger siblings.

The hangars have been stripped bare. The desk is empty and the shelves bore no more weight of sentimental or practical things. Alexander sighs again, and his breath rattles.

“He was, unfortunately for us, a little more interested in girls sometimes than his studies,” Alexander began with a flush. “I suppose that was my fault as well, perhaps he’d been more attentive to such responsibility…”

“He sounds like any normal young man,” John interrupts, thumbing through one of the other books. “I caught sight of one of his school books, all good marks.”

“Too, good.” Alexander smiles softly. “Too smart. Able to slide on some things. But, it did allow him more time at home, with his brothers and sisters and Eliza and I, which was a blessing…”

“Tell me more about him?” John interrupts softly. Alexander looks up from his spot on the floor and then down at the book, and then, miraculously enough, he chuckles.

And then he begins to fulfill John’s request, long into the night.

* * *

It’s nearing March when they’ve finished their work. The house has been packed up by room, the Hamilton’s things ready to be moved once the home has been finished, and it is nearing that time. Alexander had received a letter just that weekend from Eliza, saying she would be home in two weeks time and that the children missed him terribly. From the way Alexander’s hand had trembled where he’d held the parchment, it was clear he shared the sentiment.

“I hate to say it, but it’s probably best I head back to Plainfield.” John says one morning at breakfast. “Perhaps Saturday. You know how getting a carriage is on the Sabbath.”

“Ahmm.” Alexander makes a noise of agreement, smearing jam on some bread before he takes a bite. He nods slowly, lifting his arms as Emily stops to deliver bits of ham and egg on his plate, and refilling his cup of coffee. She rounds the table, divvying out the same to John before she retreats back to the kitchen. “Yes, that makes the most sense. We’ve gotten most of the hardest work done, but I know that Eliza will want some input on what will be sent in donations and what we will keep. And with the home almost finished, I am hoping we can begin to send some of it along before they arrive.”

John had gone with him the week before, to see the progress that had been made. Most of the structural bits had gone up, but the decorative touches---shutters, and paint to the outside, carpet and paint on the inside---were still a few weeks out as they focused on things like window panes, doors and railings on the inside. The rooms, though, were done and the floor laid, and it was a roomy, substantial home for the family, and there were certainly things that could be moved in probably a few weeks time.

“I’ve very much appreciated your help this past few weeks.” Alexander starts suddenly. He bent over his plate, slicing at the egg before dipping his toast in the yolk. “I’d have run myself ragged trying to get it all finished by now by myself.”

“I’ve no doubt you’d have been able to do it,” John comments back wryly. “But it’s what I came for. I was happy to help.”

“Why?”

John stops at the question. A simple inquiry, and Alexander continues to sip at his coffee and munch on his eggs, but so loaded.  _Why_  help a grieving friend, why come all the way down from miles away,  _why_...

“You’re my friend, Alexander. Why else wouldn’t I have wanted to help?”

“I’ve many friends here in the city, but none of them came and stayed in my rooms and helped me get out of bed and urged me to take care of myself.” Alexander’s tone is neither harsh nor accusatory. As if he’s asking what the weather outside is like and he genuinely doesn’t know. As if he can’t figure out why John would sacrifice his time and himself to focus on him. “You live over a day’s ride away. We’ve not seen each other in years. Don’t you think it’s odd?.”

_Oh_. “No.” John answers assuredly. “I do not. But when I read the news I just…”  _I know you_  he wants to insist,  _even after all this time. And I know how you are_. “I wanted to make sure you would be alright.”

He knows he should say something else. Something like duty or honor, or that he’d thought the boy was so wonderful and he had to come, but the truth was John had hardly known Phillip. But Alexander. Alexander, who would take himself apart and put himself back together like a patchwork quilt, like scar tissue. Always on his own. Always without anyone’s help. Always tougher than before. He’d wanted Alexander to know that he’d have his help. If he’d needed it. Even if he’d never ask for it.

Alexander is examining him again, and as always, John shifts under the scrutiny. He’s always working through something, always knowing there’s something there that John cannot see, always ten steps ahead of so many other people.

“You weren’t wrong.”

John tenses, because it’s not a direct response to anything he’s said. He stills, preparing himself for Alexander’s spasmodic wordplay, and folds a napkin into his lap, resting his hand on his thigh before asking, “What?”

Alexander didn’t answer immediately. Instead he cuts at piece of the ham and pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “You weren’t wrong. About you and I. About what we were doing. About it needing to stop.”

John’s hand clenches into a fist where it sits on his thigh, under the table out of view, and he bends his head to cough softly into a napkin, before readjusting and sitting taller. “I could have handled that differently.”

“Or you could not have.” Alexander wipes at his own mouth, setting the napkin on his lap with a grim twist of his lips. “I certainly deserved it. You were right, after all.” He sneaks a half mischievous, half irritated look at John. “You have an annoying habit of being brighter than I am sometimes.”

_Sometimes_. John shrugs. “I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

“Well, however it came about…” Alexander shakes his head. “What i had done to Eliza. To you. To my children…” And his voice cuts off in a choke, and his chin dips to his chest. “I have claimed to love you all so much and yet. I have been so...willfully ignorant of what was in all of our best interests, I was selfish…”

“You made mistakes. Bad decisions.” John interrupts, leaning forward on his forearms. “And what you have to do now is not submit to the need to punish yourself. It will do nothing for your family.”

“Phillip...”

“Was a man grown. And made his own decision. He may have loved you enough to make a decision but you did not kill your son.” John picks up his napkin and lays it on the table. “And, I may not have ever lost a child. Because I never really accepted I  _had_  one.” John looks up at him. “But...do you not think I’ve had to let go of my own past mistakes? Do you think I’m a stranger to how guilt weighs on a man?”

Alexander doesn’t say anything about that. Because he’s said enough over the years, during spats and sometimes even outside of it. Martha, and Frances, and his father and sister, only mentioned in passing, because John always shied away from it.

“Why did you really come here, John?” Alexander asks him the same question he had when John had shown up the first time weeks before, but there’s no more venom in it. And so, John tells the truth.

“Because I realized...i think even before I’d read the news, I knew I hadn’t ever stopped loving you.” John wipes at his mouth, eyes still on his plate. “Don’t know if I ever could. And I needed to see with my two eyes...I know how dear the boy was to you.”

“You didn’t send a note,” Alexander says. “I had expected something, so when it didn’t come, I was…” He smirks and his brows bounce. “But then you were here.”

“I thought such a terrible event called for more than just a note.”

Alexander leans back to study him, and John doesn’t look away or try and shirk the scrutiny. It’s quiet, with only the sound of the help in the kitchen to fill the air.

“What now then?”

Alexander gives life to a question John himself had been considering. What now indeed. Did they resume things as they had the past few years, when only a letter was sent every few months, with barely any detail? Alexander looks at him expectantly, his expression cautious.

“Do you…” John begins slowly. “I mean, I’m going back to Plainfield for now.”

“Well, I think we’ve established that.” Alexander sighs. “For gods sake John. If I must say it as well, of course I love you too. I always have, and I always will. And I think we can maintain a friendship and stay within the bounds of propriety.” He crosses his arms. “So, I ask again; what now?”

John pauses, and thinks to himself,  _this is silly_. And so he takes a breath and shrugs. “I have missed the city. So I could always return for visits.” He looks up at Alexander. “If that would be alright.”

Alexander rests back in his chair, and his eyes shine a bit in the early morning light. He dips his chin towards his chest, a small grin finding it’s way on his face. “I think it would be splendid.”

 

* * *

The ride back to Plainfield feels quicker than it ever has before. John has bundled himself in the carriage and is enjoying a book while the light of the day lasts, and there is an ease he’s not felt in sometime.

They make good time and arrive just after dusk. John tips the driver well and asks the man to leave his things at the main mill-house; he’ll ask Jasper to help him with them in the morning, but for now, he only wants to settle near the fire and tell Jasper about his trip. They’d written a couple of times in his absence, and while he’d enjoyed the time with Alexander, he also found himself eagerly anticipating a cold night as an excuse to lay next to a warm body again.

He made his way down the path that wound it’s way around the property to the cabin he shared with the other mill-hand, the windows glowing with warm candlelight and he skips a little as his pace picks up.

When John opens the door, the front living area is bare, but the fire is full and the heat has filled the little room. He shakes his head and divests of his hat and coat, hanging it on the coat rack near the door.  He hears a door open down the hall, and his entire body relaxes, a feeling of  _home_  settling within him, and he turns to greet Jasper, realizing he’s missed him more than he’d expected---

“Oh, fuck!”

John’s foot connects with a trunk near the door as he spins, and he jumps back, bending down to grab at his stubbed toes, breathing in through his teeth. And it takes a second for it to register---a heavy, huge, travel trunk, bigger than the one he’d taken with him to the City. With his hands on his knees, he looks up when he hears footsteps approach, still smarting from the pain in his foot, and see’s Jasper grinning at him from the mouth of the hallway. His gaze moves over to the offending object, and the grin begins to fade, and suddenly John feels as if maybe this won't be the happiest of homecomings, as he had hoped.

“Welcome back, John. I’ve missed you.” Jasper says with a soft, nervous chuckle. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm playing fast and loose with the dates. In reality, Phillip died in Nov of 1801 but with the pacing and other stuff, I'm LMMing my own patchwork of this, as I've mentioned before. Also, Hercules Mulligan's did have a son in 1785 that they named after himself, BUT him being a secretary at a law firm is beyond fabricated, just fyi.


End file.
